Annarr Kostr - Second Chance
by Haprilona
Summary: What if Hela, her journey to Helheim, her quest - all of it was real? Senua will find that getting back her lover isn't as easy as bargaining with her soul and resurrecting the dead. {Will feature a lot of new characters, both Picts and Vikings, as well as my poor attempts at grammatically correct Old Norse.}
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"I'll give you my life. That's what you want, isn't it? My soul. Take it. I'll be your slave warrior. I'll fight with you at Ragnarök, if you release him…"

Hela's single black eye stared at her, unblinking. "In order to receive, one must sacrifice." Her hollow voice seemed to come from every direction and nowhere at once. It resonated within Senua's mind and awakened her subdued Furies. "Your sacrifice is not enough to save your lover's soul. _He_ was sacrificed to _me_. It takes more to bargain for his life."

A cold chill ran through Senua and her grip on Dillion's head tightened. "What more do you want?"

"You've proven yourself worthy of the gift of Odin. Not even immortals can deny their desire to lay their hands on Gramr." The hand on her rotten side caressed the shimmering blue blade. "An offering from both a mortal and the allfather himself. That is what I want."

Dillion had led her to the sword. She had gone through such pains to earn it and it had served her well on her quest to the deepest reaches of Hel. But even the strongest of weapons was mere dust at her feet when weighed against the value of Dillion's life and love.

Standing up to her full height, Senua offered Dillion's head and with the most commanding and self-confident tone she could muster, demanded: "Release him."

Suddenly a dozen undead Northmen materialised in front of her. Jumping back on instinct, Senua reached for the sword that was no longer in its sheath. But the slaves of the giantess did not move. Instead, they hung limply in the air like the many corpses that decorated Surt's throne room.

"You will need a vessel for his soul. These are men you've defeated during your short stay. Choose whichever pleases you the most."

Hesitant, Senua approached the corpses. She couldn't see any of their faces beneath the masks they wore. How was she to choose the most suitable body for Dillion? Pacing in front of the defiled men, her eye was caught by a corpse that seemed no different from the others at a glance. Taking a closer look, his mask reminded her of Valravn's bird skull-shaped face, and from the scarred skin of his shoulders and upper arms protruded feathers of a giant raven. Beneath the plumage Senua could make out a splatter of blue. But what had caught her eye was the long gash that extended from his right breast to the left side of his chin.

Senua had given the laceration when fighting him down in the Sea of Corpses. In the seemingly endless army of undead, this man had been the last one standing. At first he had appeared to be just another grunt with a longsword, but as the fight dragged on and on, he proved himself a cunning opponent. Had it not been for Gramr and its divine properties, she might've lost the battle.

"I choose him."

The skin on Hela's normally expressionless face cracked like dry clay as displeasure twisted her features. "You are certain?"

She must have chosen correctly if the giantess wasn't happy about it. Of course she would want Senua to choose the weakest, which was probably why none of the hulking keep guards or dual-wielding berserkers were among the row of corpses. "Yes."

Grudgingly, Hela took the offered head and called for Dillion's soul. The fine hair on Senua's arms stood erect as she listened to the haunting song. The air around them seemed to drop in temperature when dark mist, similar to the one Senua had witnessed on the bridge to Helheim, surrounded the giantess and swirled up towards Dillion. It evoked a sudden, raspy intake of breath from the head. Once the mist dispersed, Hela walked to the chosen vessel and as effortlessly as a potter, fused Dillion's head with that of the corpse. The Northman collapsed as if released from invisible strings. Senua rushed to catch him, but the body slipped through her fingers and faded like ash scattered into the winds.

Eyes bloodshed with grief, desperation and rage, Senua turned to the frustratingly calm giantess, ready to challenge her with nothing but bare fists. "You lied to me!"

The half-rotten goddess merely cast a bored look towards the seething Pict. "I have kept my word. He will resurrect where he first died; in the depths of the North Sea. Within three months' time he will find his way to you. But be warned: the man won't recognise you or have any memories from his previous lives. However, his soul will yearn for yours and he cannot find rest or comfort in the arms of another."

Absently, Hela stroked the blade of Gramr with the tenderness of a lover before turning to point it at Senua. "Now, pledge yourself to me."

Senua felt her legs give out as if by an invisible force. The blue glow of Gramr filled her vision.

 _If she wants to see Dillion, she has to pledge herself to Hela!_

 _She can't die here, not now._

"I swear... I will become your slave warrior after I draw my last breath."

A devilish grin stretched the giantess' features. "Your oath shall not be forgotten, daughter of Zynbel and Galena. Now leave, return to the world of the living and await for your lover. None shall hinder you."

* * *

He woke up to the shrieking of seagulls ringing in his ears.

He had no concept of where he was or how he got there, but the sound of the seabirds comforted him. A vague and intangible memory told his hazy mind it meant a voyager had reached his destination.

Slowly his senses returned to him, similar to a bear waking from months of hibernating. Despite lacking the strength to move a single muscle, he could feel the wet sand move beneath his immobile fingers with each tide crashing against the shore. The midday sun was warm and pleasant against his soaked form. A light pressure on his shoulder announced the descent of a curious gull. It pecked at the mop of tangled locks, but flew off at the sound of a soft groan escaping his parted lips.

"Hey!" A gruff voice called, followed by sounds of heavy footsteps kicking sand. He felt something shake his shoulder roughly, but couldn't summon the willpower to react. The sand crunched next to him as the owner of the voice crouched and stuck two thick fingers against his pulse. A hot breath fanned his face.

"Still alive, at least."

Another firm shake was enough to force his eyes to crack open. Blearily he looked up at the blurry image of silver fur and cunning golden eyes. Was it Geri or Freki, one of Odin's loyal wolf-servants, here to collect him to the halls of his master?

"Anybody home?" Fingers snapped in front of his vision to provoke a response. So not a wolf, then. A werewolf, perhaps?

His unintelligent grunt seemed to delight the creature immensely.

"That's it, lad. Here, let me help you."

The werewolf turned him on his side. Immediately his body reacted with a lurch, pouring out excess saltwater from his mouth with surprising force. He barely noticed his hair being pulled away from his face as he continued to empty his flooded lungs.

"That's it. Let it all out", the voice encouraged.

Once he had nothing left to heave, a heavy hand patted his back in approval before pulling him up on his feet. He staggered and leant against the werewolf's shaggy shoulder for support.

"Feeling better?"

Managing a weary nod, he squinted at the creature, but its features were shrouded as it stood back against the blinding sunlight.

"How about I take you home? You can stay there until you can stand on your own two feet."

"To Valhalla?" he mumbled in query.

"To Valhalla?" the werewolf repeated, confusion seeping into its tone before replaced by a deep, hearty laughter. "Afraid Odin doesn't have room for the living. No, son. Old Agmundr's house will have to do. It might not measure to the Great Halls, but there's a warm hearth and a bed covered with plenty of pelts."

As he was half-carried and half-dragged away from the shore and the glare of the sun, he saw the owner of the voice was a mere man. A wolfskin berserker. True to his kind, the man wore a wolf's head and a shaggy wolfskin. Strapped under his belt was a two-handed battle axe. A pendant embedded with precious stones with magical properties to increase strength and endurance hung low from his neck, gently swaying with each step.

"Just beyond that hill is our settlement. They'll welcome you as long as you're willing to lend your sword arm. You _can_ use a sword, can't you? You have the calluses and scars of a warrior."

He grunted a confirmation. Despite having little to no tangible memory of, well, _anything_ , the idea of a sword in his hand felt familiar. He wondered whether he had lost his weapon to the depths of the sea. Perhaps he could get a new one from the village. It was good to have a goal, something to drive him forward.

 _One step at a time._

Following the pointing finger of the berserker, he peered towards the seemingly endless lush green horizon where the man's home was supposed to be. The colours seemed almost too bright, as if he was used to a muted, greyscale world and eternal overcast. It was too beautiful to be real.

"Where is this place?"

"Buckquoy, West Hrossey. Welcome to the Orkney Islands, lad."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Hrossey = literally means '_ Horse island _'; what vikings called Orkney's mainland_

 _Buckquoy = land east of Brough of Birsay_


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"Morning, Beathan."

"Senua, you're early! We weren't expecting you for another hour or so."

With a spring in her steps, Senua hopped over the stone fence, not bothering with the wicket. "I woke up early to go through all the necessary rites and offerings to the gods. I want to begin as soon as possible."

"You shouldn't rush these things, you know." Beathan, the smith's apprentice, frowned in worry and recited from memory: "'The gods don't look favourably on those who lack restraint and respect.' That's what dad told me."

A man dressed in protective leather emerged from the roundhouse and clapped Beathan's shoulder. "True, but sometimes you gotta strike while the iron's hot, boy. You needn't worry. Tharain must've made sure all was executed precisely as the gods have ordered." Veda, the village smith beckoned Senua to come inside to his workshop. "I've got your sword right here. Made it just like you asked: a longsword carved with symbols of goddess Andraste. Give it a try."

A barely suppressed excited grin lit up her eyes as Senua took hold of the wooden handle. The sword was comfortably weighty, carefully forged to suit her balance and fighting style. Senua held the blade close and inspected the Pictish runes depicting a short prayer: ' _I beg you for victory and preservation of liberty.'_ Truly, Veda was a master of his trade.

"You've outdone yourself, my friend." She took a small pouch from her belt and paid the smith. "I feel much better knowing I have a reliable sword at hand."

"And I'll sleep better at night knowing we have warriors like you protecting this village."

Senua left the workshop and lightly jogged the path leading uphill to the druid and his family's residence, past the sturdy broch fortress, stone walls, crop fields and roundhouses. Some villagers waved to her as she passed before continuing with their daily routine.

After returning to Orkney from the land of mist and fog, Senua had travelled to the only village she knew to be safe from both the Northmen and her father's influence. Dillion had been the one to tell her about it, for Veda the smith was a cousin of his and the two had been great friends in their youth. It had been Dillion's desire to pay a visit to the village with Senua before the plague. Thankfully the village druid, Tharain, had asked no questions of her troubled past, instead welcoming Senua with open arms after noticing the warrior pin on her fur collar. While the village had decent geographical as well as man-made defenses, there were never too many able warriors at hand.

During her two month stay Senua had befriended unusually many people despite her initial hesitancy and shyness. The villagers had been eager to make her feel welcomed **—** and perhaps for a good reason as someday their fate might rest in her hands. In a way, it felt as if Dillion had led her here and given her another opportunity to live as part of a community, away from the loneliness of the wilds with only her Furies for company.

She found Tharain and his wife, Derelei, waiting outside the large house. "Come, the final ritual remains to be done."

They left the village and entered the wood skirting the village wall. A spring by which stood a stone monument depicting the goddess Coventina was their destination. Tharain and Senua lowered themselves waist-deep into the cold water, while Derelei hummed a hymn and waved a charm made of branches and feathers. Tharain blessed the weapon by pouring water from his cupped hands over the iron blade.

"Hear me, Coventina, goddess of springs. Hear me Andraste, goddess of war. I name this blade Liathplathadh **—** blue flash. May it weigh lightly in Warrior Senua's hand and strike true and fast as lightning on those who dare cross her path and bring our people harm."

"The goddess Andraste shall reveal if she approves with what has been stated." Derelei's mellow voice announced as she released a hare from within the folds of her dress. It sprinted to the right and disappeared into the thicket. Tharain exclaimed in pleasure of the outcome, while Derelei raised her hands towards the heaven. "I thank you, Andraste!"

The final ritual was done. Sheathing her blessed weapon, Senua escorted the druid and his wife back to the village. As they approached the highest point of the hill fort, they saw a group of children playing a game of tag.

"I'm glad you have chosen the warrior's path, Senua", Derelei began. "But I must say I find your choice curious. You are of the age to marry and there are plenty of suitable men in the village for you to choose from. Why not settle down while you're still in the spring of youth? Don't you wish for children of your own?"

"I do", Senua admitted and absently fingered the warrior pin Dillion had given her. "But I've promised myself to someone else."

Derelei cast a curious glance towards her husband who seemed to be holding in a sigh. "And where is he now?"

"I don't know. Hela said he would come to me within three months' time. Next week it'll be three months since she made the promise."

As if no longer able to keep quiet, Tharain muttered with a huff. "That wandering geilt, Druth, has been filling her head with nonsense about Norse gods and resurrecting the dead." He pulled Senua by the arm to a halt. "Don't let the old fool dictate how to live your life, Senua. Remembering the past is valuable, but wallowing in it and being unable to move on will weaken even the sturdiest warrior's heart."

"Come now", Derelei intervened and gently removed her husband's grip from Senua. "You cannot deny how romantic her loyalty is. And you heard what she said; give it another week."

With a sigh, Tharain shook his head. "A fool's hope is still hope, I suppose. Just be prepared for disappointment." With these words the couple parted ways with Senua.

The warrior turned and headed back to the forest. She had proposed building a lookout hut up the highest pine tree at the far edge of the forest. Beathan, Veda and some other men had offered to help construct it once she found a suitable tree with sturdy enough branches. While she had given her reasoning as a way to warn and protect themselves and the village from the Northmen and other brigands, Senua hoped to use the vantage as a way to locate Dillion's vessel. If what Hela said was true, he would come find her, and because he was a Northman, there would be trouble once he came into contact with her people.

 _Tharain is right. She shouldn't place trust in Hela's promise. That greedy giantess only wanted to trick the sword from her._

 _What if all of it was in her head? What if Dillion's gone forever?_

 _What if Dillion won't be himself? Hela said he'd have no memories…_

 _What if she doesn't recognise him and kills him?_

So distracted by her own musings and the constant prattle of her Furies, Senua failed to hear the several warning cracks of crushed dry branches. It wasn't until she saw three figures clad in tunics of faded greens and greys emerging from behind the trees that she realised the danger she was in. While they appeared to be only lightly armed with a dagger and a one-handed axe hanging from each man's belt, Senua knew not to deem them a lesser threat. She had survived her quest to Helheim only by the skin of her teeth.

The men froze, clearly not expecting to find a lone armed woman in these woods. Before they could even think about taking up arms, Senua had already drawn Liathplathadh and rushed in with a feral battlecry. The closest Northman never got the chance to defend himself and fell with a gurgle, holding onto his bleeding throat in vain with both hands. Immediately his two companions sprang into action.

Senua sidestepped a quick lunge from the dagger-wielding man and parried the incoming blow from the other's axe. The men were circling around her and trying to force her to fight on two fronts. She wouldn't be able to keep both of her flanks protected. Parrying another strike of an axe and sending the man off-balance with a riposte, Senua managed to turn just in time to miss the blade of a dagger as it sliced the air where her head had been.

The first man returned to the fray and swung his axe in a wild, powerful arch. Muscles trembled from strain as Senua caught the weapon in a parry. Using the momentum, she delivered a swift kick to the man's ribs and was rewarded with a satisfying crack of bones when his back connected with a tree trunk. The Northman toppled over, the hold on his weapon slackening as he fought to recover from the impact.

The last man standing had taken the time to arm himself with both a dagger and an axe. Senua adjusted her grip on the handle of her sword, ignoring the beads of sweat that trailed down her face. With a roar the man lunged, swinging his axe and following it by a slash of the dagger. Senua managed to deflect the axe and barely had time to parry the incoming dagger. Using the strength of both arms to overpower the weaker grip on the dagger, Senua pushed the offending weapon out of her way and used the opening to land a quick slash on the Northman's exposed chest. It was enough to render him vulnerable. The incoming axe lost its momentum while the dagger was too slow to come to the man's defence. A thrust through the heart and he collapsed to stain the forest floor with fresh crimson.

Senua turned to the man with broken ribs. Despite his gasping and cloudy eyes filled with pain, his weak grip on the axe remained. Struggling back on his feet accompanied by a litany of raucous curses, the Northman lunged at her blindly with his weapon raised. Almost feeling pity for the man, Senua sidestepped easily and watched him stagger and stay upright by force of will alone. Before the man could try another wild jab, Senua's blade cleanly penetrated the man's spine. He crumpled like a puppet cut from its strings.

A startled gasp caught Senua's attention. Turning around, she saw a small boy dressed in a similar manner to the fallen Northmen hiding behind a tree. Straw-coloured hair fell over blue eyes as the boy cowered and tried to make himself invisible. His gaze was fixed on the sullied tip of her sword.

With slow, deliberate steps the Pict made way to one of the fallen Northmen and wiped the blood from Liathplathadh on his tunic before sheathing it, her eyes never leaving the frightened boy's. She was not a murderer. She would not harm an unarmed child.

Senua turned to backtrack to the village when the boy regained his wits and ran away, screaming loudly something unintelligible. A few moments later his shrieking was answered by gruff voices.

There were more of them. Many more. At least a dozen of masculine voices joined in.

Panic nearly took hold of her and the cries of her Furies overwhelmed the rest of her senses as they debated how to avoid another confrontation.

 _This is all your fault! If you had just captured the boy and taken him with you, we wouldn't be in this mess!_

 _She should run back to the village!_

 _No, it would lead them there. Remember Dillion's village! Remember what they did to Dillion!_

As if Senua could ever forget.

 _She can't stay here! There's too many of them!_

Her mind abuzz, she ran, not knowing or caring where, as long as it was away from the noise of the enclosing choir of vengeful invaders.

 _She should hide!_

 _But where? There's no place to hide!_

 _In the undergrowth?_

 _No, that's stupid!_

Senua gritted her teeth and forced herself to calm down and focus on her surroundings. Besides shrubs, mossy undergrowth and occasional boulders, there were only thickets of spruce and tall pine trees. The heathlands were ways away and even if she could make it, she would be fully exposed to her pursuers.

 _Up! Up in the trees!_

 _The treetops aren't dense enough to hide her!_

 _But they'd never look for her up there._

A sudden loud voice boomed from behind her. "Finn hana!"

They were onto her.

She sprinted to the closest pine tree and climbed. Her leather shoes threatened to slip on the sap-glossened bark, but her scraped hands held on long enough for her to find footing. By the time she reached a sturdy enough branch to rest her weight on, a burly, well-equipped Northman emerged from the thicket. He wore a woolen gambeson, a shield and an iron helmet. He shouted orders at the unseen men at the top of his lungs.

From her vantage point Senua could see moving figures scouring the thicket in the distance and hear an occasional faint reply to their leader. She wouldn't be safe in her hiding spot for long. It was only a matter of time before one of the Northmen spotted her. Her brown hair and tartan tunic offered a meager camouflage against the similarly coloured bark of the tree, but she felt more exposed than she had on the forest floor. There was nowhere to run. All it took was a single shot from an arrow and that'd be the end of it.

"Andskoti!" The sudden curse drew Senua's attention to the leader of the bandits who was hunched over by her tree and holding his foot. Taking a closer look, she could see bloodied toes poking through the weathered and torn tip of his leather shoe. He must've stubbed it on one of the sharp rocks poking through the blanket of moss.

She couldn't have asked for a more perfect opportunity for an ambush even if she had prayed for it.

 _No, don't! Stay here, it's safe here!_

 _She can't stay here forever. She has to get back to the village and warn the people! She can slip past the Northmen if she kills him._

Senua climbed down as quietly as humanly possible and dropped the rest of the way, the sound of her fall muted by the sponge-like moss. The man had set his mace and shield aside, attention solely on the bloody mess of his foot. His guard was down and his back was invitingly exposed for a quick and easy kill.

Perhaps Andraste watched over her after all.

Cold determination driving her forward, Senua drew Liathplathadh and struck.

The Northman hollered from pain and shock, but didn't go down. The sturdy gambeson had protected him from the brunt of her slash.

 _What is this, witchcraft?_

 _Is he protected by a spell?_

 _How is that possible? It's just cloth!_

Senua ignored the Furies and made to strike again, but the man rolled out of the blade's path, picked up the discarded weaponry and hid behind the safety of his shield.

"Pettsk bikkja!" Red foam dribbled from his mouth as he spat out the words like venom, eyes ablaze with rage.

With a cry Senua leapt, but each strike was followed by the low thud of iron against wood. His defense was impenetrable.

"Hon eru hér!" The man bellowed for his men even as Senua continued to harass him with heavy strikes in an attempt to tire his shield-arm.

She was at an disadvantage and running out of time. The Northman had to barely move to keep himself protected. All he needed was to wait for his men to arrive. But he did have one weak spot.

Deciding to change tactics, Senua rushed him, slamming against his shield with all of her body weight and momentarily knocking him off-balance. The split-second was long enough for Senua to slash at his defenseless legs.

Instead of succumbing to the pain and opening himself for further assaults, the man seemed to become fueled by it. He roughly shoved Senua with his shield before lunging with a feint attack towards her head. Leaning backwards to avoid the brute swing, she failed to see the incoming mace hidden behind the shield until it was too late.

The weapon ripped through leather and skin, grazing her knee and tossing her like a ragdoll into the thicket. Stars exploded behind her eyes as a wave of agony washed over her.

 _She's injured!_

 _She won't be able to make it!_

 _Don't just sit there! Get! Up!_

A sharp rock stuck out of the moss and scraped against her palm. Gritting her teeth, Senua picked it up and hid it behind her back as she staggered back on her feet.

They panted and stood unsurely on their injured legs, sizing each other up for an opening or a weak spot. The Northman limped towards her, shield steadily held in front of him and the bloodied mace at the ready.

Senua hurled the rock at the man's face. On instinct, he raised his shield to protect his eyes. Using the distraction, she charged and leapt, using her healthy knee to smack the edge of the shield against the Northman's unprotected mouth. Reeling from the unexpected attack, he blindly raised his mace to retaliate, but Senua was ahead of him and rolled to safety from between his widely spread legs.

Recovering, the Northman turned to defend his vulnerable back only to feel the cold bite of Liathplathadh against his unprotected neck. With a bloodcurdling scream, Senua slit the man's throat and watched as he attempted a final, deadly swing at her before sagging against the trunk of a tree.

Relief flooded her entire body, but with it she felt her strength ebb away. Her injured knee was bleeding heavily. She hadn't even noticed how bad it was during the fight. She dimly recalled Dillion remarking something about warriors and how they often died from wounds only after their battle frenzy had been spent.

Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she attempted to limp away into the safety of the thicket, but her legs gave out and she fell heavily to the moss mattress.

 _Come on, Senua!_

 _Quickly, get up! They're coming!_

 _You have to get back to the village!_

 _They'll kill you if they catch you!_

The village. Tharain. Derelei. Veda. Young Beathan. She couldn't have a repeat of Dillion's village.

Supporting herself with Liathplathadh, Senua forced herself back on her feet and used the sword as a crutch. She wouldn't be able to do much fighting like this.

"Þú! Pettsk mær! Stǫðva!"

It was as if the gods had heard her and decided to stack all the odds against her for their own amusement.

Glancing over her shoulder, Senua saw a lone Northman kneeling next to the slain leader. He was armed with a longsword similar to hers, but unlike her, the man was uninjured—and fast!

He charged at her and Senua had no choice but to raise Liathplathadh in her defense. She managed to parry the attack, but staggered back from the force of the blow and lack of crutch to support her. Swords still crossed, Senua leant forward to rebalance herself. Through the holes of his animal skull mask she saw him glance down at her bleeding knee. Before Senua could try and shield her obvious weakness, the man pulled back and smacked the injured body part with the blunt side of the blade. She fell with a muffled moan, but kept her sword raised as a last line of defense. Another quick and powerful swipe and the man sent Senua's weapon flying from her weakened grasp.

 _He's going to kill her!_

 _He's stronger than her!_

She was left with few options.

Painstakingly she rolled back on her feet, every muscle in her injured leg flaring in protest against the abuse. From the corner of her eye she could see the Northman raise his longsword, ready to execute her mercilessly while she was beaten and helpless.

Hunched, Senua rushed at him, grabbed him by the calves and pulled with all the strength she could muster and managed to trip him over. He fell heavily on the forest floor, the back of his head connecting with something harder than moss. Senua made to grab his sword, but even through his daze the man's hold on it remained firm. Deeming it best to even the odds, she settled for kicking the weapon out of his grasp instead.

A swift kick to her trembling calf was enough to force her to join him on the forest floor. His strong arms wrapped around her neck from behind, cutting off her air. Senua thrashed against his hold—flailing, kicking, clawing, biting. The Furies were an incoherent chorus of desperation as they tried to offer useless advice or wailed at her inevitable demise. Just as she began to feel lightheaded, her elbow connected hard against the man's chin. He grunted and eased his chokehold enough for Senua to pull away. With a greedy gasp she sucked in air and rolled off the man.

But the fight was not over.

Having recovered, the Northman pulled her back by the foot and punched her hard enough to see stars. She fell limply on her back and felt the man climb on top of her, his heavy weight crushing her injured leg. Senua screamed. Her whole body felt like it was pulsing with white-hot agony. Again the man's fingers wound up around her throat.

 _She can't breathe! She can't breathe-_

 _Don't give up! Hit him!_

 _Kill him!_

Senua clawed at his hands, but his hold was like an iron collar. In an attempt to reach his vulnerable eyes, she smacked his mask off. Her eyes widened in recognition.

A familiar scar extending from breast to chin. Her chosen vessel. Hela's promise.

"Dillion!" Senua somehow managed to croak out under his vice-like grip.

The man froze and let go of her neck as if he'd been burnt. Immediately Senua began to cough and wheeze. So engrossed in filling her lungs with precious air, she failed to notice the pressure on her leg ease as the man climbed off her.

The ambience of distant shouts died down when the Northmen found their way into the opening from the thicket. Dillion stood calmly by her with his sword almost lazily pointed in her direction, his focus elsewhere. The men gathered around the body of their leader, those with helmets or hats removing them in reverence. They muttered quietly amongst themselves. After a while few of the men began to build a makeshift stretcher from their clothes and spears to carry the fallen warrior back home. Senua noticed the three men she had killed earlier were also carried in similar mobile beds with their weapons respectfully placed beside the bodies.

One of the Northmen—a barefooted man dressed in nothing but a wolfskin pelt—turned to Senua. His deep, almost throaty voice was loud and clear. He appeared to be a man used to capturing the attention of those around him. "Hvat ger vér með hana?"

Soon all of the men's eyes were on her, determining what her fate should be. Would they kill her or take her as a slave like Druth? Something far worse? Senua trembled, but not from cold.

A gentle tenor beside her answered. "Hon kømr með oss."

Looking up, Senua saw Dillion eye her thoughtfully. Not knowing a word of the language, all she could do was wordlessly plead for his goodwill and hope he would somehow recognise her or at the very least take pity on her.

He did neither. Instead, he sheathed his weapon and grabbed her by the arm. Her groans of protest were ignored and she was roughly forced on her feet. Dillion and another man restrained her by the arms while a third Northman placed an iron collar around her bruised neck. With the last ounce of her strength drained, Senua slumped beneath the weight of the collar and was kept upright only by the steady grips of Dillion and his companion. Once the body of their fallen leader was secured on a stretcher, the Northmen set off.

Senua hung limply from their arms and listened to the quiet chatter of the Northmen, the playful clatter of spears against tree trunks, the shuffling sound of her deadweight limbs scraping against the forest floor and the worried whispers of her Furies. Her vision was dim and she felt lightheaded.

"Bíð þú, hon blœðr."

The men dragging her came to a stop and lowered her back on the ground. Without comprehending, she watched Dillion press a warm palm against her knee and sucked her teeth sharply in response. Her knee throbbed painfully to the slow tempo of her heartbeat. Frowning, Dillion removed his hand to rip strips of cloth from his tunic and wrapped them around the wound to stop the bleeding.

"Rassragr." The man who had helped carry her snorted. The other Northmen chuckled as if something amusing had just happened. Dillion rolled his eyes and gave her uninjured leg a pat before nodding to his companion. Together they hauled Senua up and continued to carry her further away from the protective shade of trees.

She was only dimly aware of the sounds of sloshing water as they crossed a narrow strip of land separating two lakes from each other. The little boy from before ran excitedly knee-deep into the shallows and kicked, sending sprays of droplets on the backs of the adults. One of the men turned, growled playfully and chased after him, filling his helmet with lakewater before emptying its contents on the escaping child's head. Shrieks of laughter filled the air.

A sequence of long shadows shielded Senua's unseeing eyes from the blinding evening sun. Had the Northmen taken her to the one of the sacred stone rings? Just a month ago she had watched Tharain communicate with the gods in the middle of the ring of Brodgar, praying for protection and guidance against the invading Northmen. Perhaps she should've done the same that day. Without the blessed Liathplathadh, Senua could only rely on herself to survive what was to come. It was nigh ironic that Dillion had been the one to disarm her. For him she had given up Gramr **—** and in a twist of fate Liathplathadh.

After what seemed like days to her disoriented mind, the sounds of lapping waves faded away, replaced by the gentle swish of endless grassy plains. A cool breeze dried the sweat on her skin and brought smells from far-off plains. One particular smell was strong enough to pull her back to full awareness. Heart leaping to her throat, Senua fought to lift her heavy head and saw wisps of grey rising in the distance. Smoke.

Had the Northmen already found Tharain's village? Tears blurred her sight, obscuring the fate of her people from Senua.

Sounds of grazing cattle and sheep reached her ears despite the wailing of her Furies and the loud pounding of her heartbeat. The thought of the Northmen sparing the village livestock was a hollow comfort. Meanwhile the men seemed to cheer up the closer they came to their destination, their steps becoming lighter and more jubilant. Somebody even began to sing, and soon the rest of them joined. Senua could not fathom how the tragedy of her people could be taken so lightly even by the very people who caused so much suffering.

But upon seeing wooden longhouses and smoke rising from smokeholes rather than burning roundhouses, Senua felt like she could've burst into song as well. Her people were safe. The Northmen had not found the Pict village.

Suddenly her fate seemed clear. The Norse settlement, the iron collar on her neck—she was to be their slave, perhaps even to be sold off to far-off lands.

She felt a pair of eyes on her and turned her head to see a Northman in his early twenties leering at her. His long, sand-coloured hair was pulled back from his face by several beaded braids while the rest of it hung freely against his back. He sauntered leisurely next to her, both hands holding a spear resting against the back of his neck without any regard to the men walking beside him. Senua caught his hazel eyes. Rather than being dissuaded, the man appeared encouraged by her attention and made his intentions known by allowing his gaze roam over her abused body, meaningfully pausing at the curve of her cleavage. A lecherous smirk curved his full lips.

With a shudder, she turned away and sought solace in Dillion's unfamiliar face. He had barely anything in common with her dead lover **—** instead of short and matted brown hair, his was the colour of straws and long enough to be braided all the way down to his back. Both had blue eyes, but this man's were the colour of stormy seas rather than the gentle summer skies. His rugged features were covered in scars and flaxen facial hair. From the corners of his eyes down to his high cheekbones trailed streaks of woad blue.

His grim eyes found hers, startling Senua with their intensity.

* * *

He was bothered by the way the Pict girl kept staring at him, similar to a small child searching for answers from their parent's face. She seemed so lost, so vulnerable. He should've been disgusted by such an open display of weakness. Instead, he felt pity.

Adjusting his grip on the girl's arm, he noticed Yngvarr eyeing the Pict like a wolf would a slab of meat. The man had been complaining about the lack of women for weeks. They had sold the last patch of thralls a month back and made a pretty penny out of it. Only the leftovers—the damaged, the ugly and the elderly—of Tuatha occupied the slave pens, and Yngvarr was a finicky man.

The girl glanced at Yngvarr who seemed to take the gesture as an invitation to strut like a rooster with his chest buffed out. Quickly she turned away and sought his gaze, pale blue eyes pleading for help.

What was it about this girl that made him want to protect her? She was just another primitive local to be sold in the great thrall market of Hedeby, just another means for them to fill their coffers and live the life they'd always wanted, away from the pompous rules and customs of their homeland.

The Northman's thoughts went back to the moment he had been about to squeeze the life out of the girl and how a rasped, incoherent word had stopped him in his tracks. He had been assaulted by sudden flood of fragmented memories; vague sounds and sights that lasted little more than a blink of an eye. He couldn't make any sense of them, yet he clung to them like a drowning man.

The sun was setting by the time they reached the towngate. They were welcomed by about dozen children, a couple of elders, as well as wives of foreign origin a handful of the luckier men had managed to secure for themselves. Most of the villagers had yet to return home from their work at the farmland. Those crafting at their workshops put their work on hold to come and see what the commotion was about.

"Take Skorri, Aeisir, Tafi and Thiokkr to the shaman. Help her prepare them for their journey to afterlife", Agmundr told the men carrying their chief and the three scouts. Despite the wolfskin berserker having an aura of authority and the age of an accomplished warrior, he had never been one to bark orders outside battle, preferring to let others lead. With Skorri dead, a new chief would have to be appointed from the remaining twenty-three warrior men.

He wasn't looking forward to it and the scuffle it would entail.

They dragged the Pict girl where the thralls were kept. After tossing her inside an unoccupied pen, Radugr bound her hands and halfheartedly kicked her as a repayment for having to drag her. Locking the cage behind him, Radugr left the two alone without a word and a merry tune on his lips.

The Pict girl curled into a pitiful ball, but stayed alert and followed the remaining Northman's every move. Upon noticing the tears in her eyes, he felt a strange urge to reach through the wooden bars and dry them. He crept closer, gaze never wandering from the girl's. She made no attempt to put distance between them and merely waited to see what he would do.

He couldn't deny he was fascinated by her; she was obviously scared due to her unfortunate circumstance and showed unease towards the men with less than pure intentions, but towards him—the man who nearly killed her—she acted like a tamed canine.

Deciding to test the waters, he sat down next to her. Was he imagining it or did she seem to press against the bars in a futile attempt to get closer to him? With faked air of nonchalance, he allowed his hand to pass through the barrier and rest next to her thigh. He didn't have to wait for long to feel the tentative brush of her scarred fingertips against the back of his hand.

He kept his head faced towards the activities of the villagers even as he studied her from the corner of his eye. Her chapped lips quivered and her wide blue eyes blinked uselessly against the blur from teardrops. She seemed to be struggling to keep a lid over her emotions. What was it that she saw and he didn't?

Unexpectedly her fingers clasped his and held tightly like one would a lifeline. Not fully understanding her distress yet unwilling to cause her more anguish, he allowed her to cling to his hand. If he could offer some meager comfort through such a small gesture, he'd gladly permit it. Her other hand lifted to cradle his between both of hers and she wept silently, the leather of her headpiece resting against the cocoon of flesh.

Moments later exhaustion caught up with her and she fell asleep against the bars. Sighing, he pulled back from her touch and dismissed the sudden feeling of loss. Casting a final glance in the defeated Pict's direction, he left the pens behind.

He found Agmundr among a large gathering of men watching a game of Mia.

"Ah, you're late for the game." The wolfskin berserker greeted him. "They're competing who first gets to invite the Pict in bed. Final round."

Despite his best efforts, he couldn't ignore the tight knot forming in the pit of his stomach. The mere thought of the poor girl having to endure more at the hands of his kinsmen made his skin crawl. He pushed the irrational feelings aside and feigned indifference. "Who's winning?"

"Yngvarr", Radugr snarled. "He's cheating. No man can be that lucky. He's been drawing sixes every round. He must've paid the shaman to enchant the dice!"

The sand-haired poet scoffed and retorted. "You're just sour you haven't been blessed by the Hamingja. I, for one, have given offerings on a weekly basis. My luck is divine." Yngvarr gathered the dice and made a point to shake them with more dramatics than required.

The audience made noises of disbelief, approval and delight as Yngvarr rolled sixes yet again. But not even his theatrics could fool Angmundr's keen eyes. The older man elbowed his observing companion in the ribs and made a nod towards Yngvarr's sleeves. Squinting his eyes, he could see something move within the cloth. Perhaps Radugr wasn't too far off in his accusation. Having witnessed the poet's enthusiasm towards the Pict earlier certainly supported the theory.

"Seems like I'll be enjoying me some barbarian pussy tonight, lads", Yngvarr cheered. The contenders of the final round grumbled and cursed, but grudgingly allowed the poet his victory once free tankards of mead were placed in front of them. "Victor's generosity."

Yngvarr left with a spring in his steps, twirling the key to the Pict's pen.

* * *

Senua was startled awake by the sound of clinking keys and cheerful humming. The Northman who had eyed her with interest earlier was there to collect her. Without any regard to her injuries, he pulled Senua up by the iron collar and dragged her heavy-handedly to a house she presumed as his home. The man shoved her inside and closed the door behind him. Senua scrambled on her knees to get distance and a clear visual on her surroundings.

The Northman chuckled and tossed several logs into the dying flames of the hearth before turning his lustful eyes on her form.

"Kom þú hér, min meyla", he crooned. Senua retreated until her back connected with the wooden wall. The Northman took slow and deliberate steps towards her, his delighted grin reminding her of a ravenous wolf closing in on its prey.

 _Find something to fight with!_

 _She needs to get rid of the binds!_

 _The collar is so heavy…_

If she could only get around the man and grab one of those logs…

He was upon her faster than she could stand up. Senua's poor attempt to punch the Northman with bound fists was rewarded with a mischievous squeeze on the injured knee. With a soft cry Senua crumbled on the floor and pulled her legs up to shield her body. Lean sinewy arms lifted her from the crouched position and trapped her against the wall while his knee pushed between her thighs. His mouth descended on the bare skin of her neck and chest, licking, sucking and biting. Shuddering from revulsion, Senua closed her eyes and took a fortifying breath. When the man lowered his head and moved to pull her fur-trimmed collar down for easier access, she headbutted him hard.

Blood trickled from the man's nose and he cursed in earnest before violently shoving Senua on the bed. The back of her head connected with the headboard, dazing her long enough for the man secure her bound hands to it.

His playfulness spent, the man kicked off his shoes and stripped before forcing himself on top of her. All she could do was fight off the man's advances with one leg, but even that was rendered useless once he straddled her. He pulled her collar down roughly, ripping the tartan in the process and exposing her breasts to the cool air. Cold hands molested the supple skin, pinching and squeezing and leaving bruises behind. Senua felt a hardness grow and press against her trousers. In a final attempt to push him off her, she thrusted her hips upwards, but the man kept his balance and began to grind his loins against hers in a show of dominance. His hot breath fanned against her face as he panted. Whimpering, she squeezed her eyes shut and wished she could block out everything and recede into the safety of her mind.

 _She needs to escape!_

 _She can't let him take what isn't his!_

 _You have to fight him!_

His thrusts came to a halt and he moved to take off her trousers. Senua saw her chance when in his distraction the hand that had been cupping her breast slipped up to her collarbone. Pushing against her restraints, Senua leant forward and sunk her teeth on his finger. She bit as hard as she could and tasted the coppery tang of blood. The Northman howled from pain and tried to pull away, but Senua's hold was like iron and his weak attempts to choke her only encouraged Senua to bite harder. The more he thrashed, the more the muscle continued to rip. Surrendering herself to gravity, Senua pulled the trapped finger further back with her until the satisfying wet snap and lack of resistance announced her victory.

Senua spat out the finger in defiance and watched the man shriek and hold the bleeding stump. Soon his pitiful wailing was replaced by rage and litany of curses. He retrieved a dagger from his discarded belt and placed its blade inside Senua's mouth. She lay motionless, eyes wide with fear.

* * *

"Not so tough now, are you, little Pict bitch?" He heard Yngvarr taunt the girl. He wasn't certain what he had expected to find behind the closed door, but it wasn't an amputated finger on bloodstained earth.

Yngvarr—naked as the day he was born—hovered over the bound girl and held a dagger to the corner of her mouth. She must've put quite the fight to get the poet worked up in such a frenzy.

"Yngvarr, put the dagger away", he ordered calmly.

"Stay out of this! She fucking bit my finger off! She deserves a slicing."

"I insist." The sound of a sword being drawn was almost painfully loud within the confined space. "You forget I own her. _I_ captured her which means she belongs to _me_. And I don't like it when hotheads like you ruin my merchandise." By law he had every right to challenge the poet, and Yngvarr knew he was outmatched.

Seconds seemed to drag into hours as he waited with bated breath. Both Yngvarr and the Pict were still as statues. Finally with a frustrated snarl Yngvarr removed the dagger and slammed it on the table, leaving it erect.

Eyes blazing with rancor, the poet stabbed a finger in the intruding Northman's face. "She might be your property, but that only means you're responsible for her behaviour. You should be whipped for her insolence."

He sheathed his sword to show he wasn't bothered by the younger man's threats in the slightest. "Go get that hand checked. The healer might be able to salvage your tagelharpa-playing career yet. And put some trousers on." He tossed the discarded clothes to the sand-haired poet who sneered in response.

"Barbarian loving asshole." Yngvarr spat at the other man's feet before stomping outside.

Once the sound of Yngvarr's footsteps faded, he turned his attention to the Pict. She had additional bruises, cuts and bitemarks from when he last saw her. Tears trailed freely down her cheeks. Her lips and chin were stained with gore and her injured knee had began to bleed once more through the dressing.

"It's alright. He's gone now." He soothed the girl and slowly approached the bed. Her eyes remained vacant even as he cut the binds and her battered body collapsed against the headboard.

"I'm taking you home. I need to take a look at that knee of yours. For a self-proclaimed ladies' man Yngvarr certainly doesn't know how to treat one." His meaningless conversing appeared to have a positive effect on the Pict as the clouds lifted from her gaze and she slowly became aware of her surroundings. Shyly, she pulled the tattered remains of her tartan to cover her exposed chest.

"We'll have to fix that, too", he agreed. Gathering her in his arms, he carried her outside. Without needing to prompt the girl, her arms wound up around his neck for support. As they passed the curious stares of villagers, she buried her face in the crook of his neck in an attempt to shut out the world around her. He felt his heart throb with pity.

Once safely within the privacy of his home, he set the girl down in his bed and removed the iron collar from her neck. It fell with a heavy thud on the pounded earth. Reaching for a small bowl filled with a herbal remedy from the healer, he set to treat her injuries.

* * *

It should've been unnerving to hear Dillion's mellow voice coming from a stranger's lips, but Senua was oddly soothed by its familiar lilt. Even her Furies were uncharastically calm, only hesitantly whispering in the back of her mind as if afraid of drawing the man's attention to their presence. Eventually a nagging voice—which Senua had come to know as the loudest to announce her self-doubts—dared to break the serenity and say what the Pict lacked the courage to utter even in the seclusion of her own mind: what if the desire to reunite with her lover was warping reality into something it wasn't? What if she imagined the Northman's voice as Dillion's?

A brief sharp pain on her knee was enough to pull Senua back from her bleak musings. The man muttered what could've been an apology and continued to remove the bloodsoaked dressing. He tossed it aside before reaching for a bowl of water and washing the wound. In one fluid motion the man pulled the tattered remains of his tunic off and ripped fresh strips to wrap her knee with. Senua's eyes wandered over his bare torso and followed the crisscross pattern of old wounds and self-inflicted scars in the shape of runes. Some she recognised as symbols for strength and protection. A vague shape of an eagle taking flight was smeared on his chest and shoulders in the same blue as the thin streaks trailing down from the corners of his eyes. Although the markings were all wrong, the woad on the man's skin reminded her of Dillion when he had gone through his warrior trials.

The Northman continued to speak in a hushed tone to fill the silence, his soft timbre almost melodic akin to a beginning of a song. Senua needed only to close her eyes to believe she was back in Dillion's village, listening to him hum stories passed down from father to son for generations.

The illusion was broken as soon as the rough battle-hardened fingers finished tending her injuries, leaving only a pleasant tingle behind where skin had ghosted against skin. Instead of leaning back in his seat, the man continued to study Senua as if trying to solve a riddle written on her painted features. Senua returned his stare evenly and did not so much as blink when he lifted a hand to trace the curve of her cheekbones, jaw and neck. It had been so long since she had felt a touch that meant her no harm. She resisted a shudder even as her heart trembled with longing, but couldn't stop herself from leaning against the warmth of his palm.

"Hverr eru þú?" He whispered, dark eyes narrowing in confusion when her body responded to his attention without hesitation. "Ek kenni þik eigi, þó..."

Senua let out a mumbled protest when the man withdrew his hand, ending the caress prematurely. The hints of tenderness gone from his gaze, he gestured to himself.

"Leifr."

He pointed to her and waited expectantly.

 _Leifr._ She recalled hearing the word several times. _That's how the other Northmen addressed him._

Even though him having a name from his previous life made perfect sense, Senua couldn't help but feel a sense of loss. Like a part of Dillion that was dormant beneath the Northman's flesh was slipping away and she could do nothing about it.

"Ná?" He urged her to answer, but his relaxed posture exuded patience that seemed out of place in a brute like him.

"Senua." There was no recognition on his face, just as Hela had predicted. Senua's heart sunk as the last ray of hope was snuffed out mercilessly. He truly did not remember anything about his life as Dillion or as an undead slave warrior to the half-rotten goddess. He was blissfully unaware of the origin of the hideous scar stretching from his breast to chin.

"Senua", he repeated slowly, as if savouring each syllable and looking for something familiar to latch onto. Finding nothing, Leifr sighed and stood up.

"Don't leave me!" Her attempts to stop the Northman were rewarded with only a fistful of waistwrap. Casting a puzzled glance from his stretched cloth to Senua's pleading blue eyes, Leifr returned to her side and calmly pushed her back to lie down against the sheepskin covers.

"Ek för eigi heðan." He paused, eyes widening, and stared as if she had grown a second head. For a brief but anxious moment Senua wondered whether he had heard the chorus of protests echoing within her mind. Surely he couldn't hear her Furies…?

"Skil þú mik?" Leifr gestured frantically at himself and then to her which did little to help her understand what he wanted. Shaking her head in bewilderment, Senua watched helplessly as the Northman let his arms fall to his sides in defeat and turned to leave. Ignoring the sting of her injuries, Senua sat up with the intention to follow him, but Leifr merely raised a hand towards her and shook his head in disapproval.

"Bíð þú hér."

She understood the gesture. _Wait._

With the doubtful cries and panicked protests of her Furies ringing in her ears, Senua settled back in bed and reassured herself the enigmatic man would return to her.

* * *

Leifr needed fresh air. He didn't understand what was it about the young Pict woman that brought out the fierce need to protect her. What puzzled him even more was how he had never spoken a word of the strange, harsh language yet he could understand perfectly when Senua pleaded him to stay with her, almost as if something slumbering within him had awoken and recognised the words. It was similar to that of a memory from childhood; a distant sensation resurfaced from long forgotten past, still there, but buried beneath the passage of years.

Was it possible he had dealt with her kind before? Leifr could barely remember anything from before the day he was found washed ashore by his kinsmen. The only links to his past were a name that had been on his lips upon waking up—which Leifr presumed was his own—and the numerous scars that painted a picture of a seasoned warrior.

He could think of several unpleasant theories for his mysterious connection to the natives. Perhaps he was a Pict himself who was left behind and taken in by the Northmen. There was also a possibility of being taken as a slave by the Picts and having lived with them long enough to absorb the language.

Leifr's thoughts returned to the girl occupying his bed.

If he was reading her correctly, she seemed to think she knew him. The Pict had shown obvious relief when he had taken her under his wing. Her lack of apprehension to his touches even after being nearly ravaged just moments before, the poorly concealed longing in her eyes whenever she thought he wasn't watching—all of it told a story similar to a betrothed maiden waiting for her intended to return from a long voyage. But why would he be involved with a Pict? Surely he would've been content with screwing her a few times before selling her to the highest bidder and moving on to the next whore?

The mere thought stung like a needle at his heart. Leifr couldn't explain his feelings towards the girl any more than his capability to understand her language.

"Leifr, I heard you reclaimed the girl! How's the Pict in bed? Does her skill to please measure with that wonderfully savage fighting spirit?" Agmundr clapped a friendly arm around Leifr's shoulders and offered a tankard of weak mead, a snaggletoothed grin dancing on his weathered face.

Accepting the beverage, Leifr kept his expression carefully neutral. "Remains to be seen. That moron roughened her up and I don't intend to have her die to her wounds during sex."

"I'm sure a savage like her can take a little pain." The wolfskin berserker took a generous gulp of his drink followed by a hearty burp. "It's the least that bitch deserves after biting Yngvarr's finger off. Squealed like a piglet on his way to the healer."

Leifr had to bite back the smirk that threatened to emerge at the thought of it.

Casually, the elder warrior continued to chatter and swirl his tankard. "Since she killed Skorri, we should honour him by donating our life force to him through the girl. Would also do good for the morale. A rough screw from all of us and a clean death to ensure the chief has enough stamina and a pretty plaything to keep him company on his way to Valhalla."

Sheer fury and possessiveness twisted Leifr's features into a dark scowl. "She's mine. _I_ defeated her, _I_ captured her." He jabbed a thumb on his breast for emphasis. "I will fuck her when I want and I will keep fucking her until I'm satisfied. The chief can have one of the Tuath slaves."

Agmundr raised a hand in appeasement. "Didn't mean to imply otherwise. But I do believe Skorri would appreciate a good send-off. You can't deny there's poetic justice in it."

"Great. Now I'm surrounded by poets. Thought there was enough to endure with Yngvarr's hollering and tagelharpa-playing."

Agmundr laughed and emptied the remains of his mead on the ground. "To Skorri. Skál!"

Shaking his head, Leifr followed his friend's example. "Skál!"

* * *

Senua could tell it was getting dark outside when what little light had previously peered in through the crannies faded with the disappearance of the sun. Leifr had been gone for hours. Biting her lip and forcing herself up from the warmth and softness of the sheepskin covers, Senua limped to the pitiful remains of a fire Leifr had lit before leaving, and set to work. The least she could do was stoke the flames and make sure the Northman's home was nice and warm upon his return.

The ambience of crackling wood was interrupted by a mournful rumble. Senua hadn't eaten anything since setting out with Tharain that morning to complete all the necessarily rituals for Liathplathadh. She was famished.

An empty cauldron hung over the fire. Perhaps Leifr had foodstuffs she could prepare a meal out of? Looking up, Senua saw above the hearth dried herbs and loaves of bread as well as smoked lamb hanging from the beams. But how was she to reach them in her condition? She certainly wasn't tall enough.

Glancing around the large room, she spotted wooden barrels and boxes with runes carved on them. Peering inside one of the barrels, Senua's nose was assaulted by a strange, although not entirely unpleasant aroma. It was some sort of amber-coloured liquid. Hesitantly she dipped in a finger and tasted it. It was different from the sweet ale made of heather that Senua was used to drinking, but it wasn't entirely unsavoury. At least she now had a way to reach the food. Rolling one of the unopened barrels next to the open hearth, Senua climbed on it with uncertain feet and coughed as she inhaled a puff of smoke.

The sound of faint footsteps coming outside the longhouse announced Leifr's return. Senua faced the door, looked down at her ruined clothes before quickly gathering the fur collar, leather and tartan against her bare chest for meager cover. Her Furies berated her for the way she was acting. After all, it was considered a regular practise to fight nude within her kin. Surely the Northmen were used to such a sight by now. But the domestic setting—and a foreign one at that—made Senua feel uneasy and exposed.

The wooden door opened with a creak.

Upon seeing the Pict standing on a barrel and staring at him like a deer would with an arrow pointed at it, Leifr froze and blinked in confusion.

"Hvat–?"

It was then that her knee decided it had had enough of stress for the day, and she teetered dangerously over the hearth.

Leifr was instantly beside Senua, pulling her back to safety and scooping her in his arms before she could fall down. Cheeks burning from embarrassment, Senua held on to her clothes with white knuckles and refused to meet the Northman's curious gaze. From the corner of her eye she noticed Leifr glance at the barrel and the beams. As if confirming what he must have already figured out, Senua's stomach growled once more.

A low chuckle vibrated against her side. Leifr set her down on the bed before plucking a loaf of rye bread and offering it to her. With a shy smile Senua accepted it. "Thanks."

"Þat var ekki", he muttered and sat next to her.

 _He's been out all day just like she has._

 _She should share, just like she did with Dillion._

For once Senua agreed with her Furies wholeheartedly.

Offering half of the loaf earned her another soft chuckle from the Northman. It reminded her of Dillion's when he found out she had learnt to fight by watching him.

"Þak."

They ate in comfortable silence and watched the dance of flames and rising smoke in the open hearth. Senua noted the walls of Leifr's house were decorated with several ornate tapestries depicting events she had no knowledge of, and wondered whether they were bought or plundered. From what she had seen, there were only a handful of womenfolk in the settlement and none of them appeared to share characteristics with the fair-haired men, which meant none of the tapestries were likely made by the residents. Why had none of the Northmen brought their wives with them? Had there been someone in Leifr's life before he left to brave the stormy seas? Senua wished she could've probed the silent man next to her for answers. Never even in her wildest dreams had she thought of having the opportunity to converse with those she had seen as manifestations of evil for so long.

Having finished his share, Leifr turned to eye the Pict. He was suddenly back on his feet, as if having remembered something and hurried to the door where he had dropped whatever he had been carrying.

"Ek hef þetta að þik."

Draped over his arm were clothing unlike anything Senua had ever seen before. The first one was an ankle-length chemise made of white linen with colourful embroidery on the collar and cuffs. Leifr gestured Senua to put it on. With no means to fix her own clothes, she had little choice but to accept the foreign garb.

Senua removed her warrior pin and held onto it before discarding the ruined bodice and trousers, leaving only the well-worn shoes on. Even with her back turned towards the Northman, Senua was keenly aware of being stared at and wondered how he saw her. Was she comparable to the women of the North? Did he even remember any of them after his resurrection? The Furies giggled like immature children at her sudden state of self-consciousness.

The cloth felt soft and comfortable against her skin. Leifr helped her put on a woolen dress, fastening the straps on each shoulder with oval-shaped bronze brooches and without appearing to give it much thought, took Senua's warrior pin and secured the neckline of her chemise with it. Did some dormant part of him remember gifting her the pin and its significance? Senua knew she shouldn't get her hopes up, just as Tharain had warned, but the temptation was too great.

Leifr retrieved her belt and put it on for her, letting his hands hover over her hips for a few seconds longer than necessary, before taking a step back and giving a stoic nod of approval. The belt felt too light on her hips without the comforting weight of Liathplathadh.

Was this what women of the Northmen wore?

Experimentally, Senua stood on her good leg and stretched the injured leg in an imitation of a very slow and powerless kick. The flinch of pain didn't escape Leifr, who guided Senua to join him on the bed. Glancing down at the long hem of the dress, Senua concluded the garment was of a woman, of a _wife_ —not a warrior. It wasn't impossible to fight in, but considerably more restraining than her leather trousers. She could foresee the long ends of the chemise getting caught in all manner of bushes and undergrowth or becoming a heavy burden from soaking up lake-water when fleeing from enemies.

The thought gave her pause.

Given the chance, would she run? From Leifr? From Dillion?

 _She needs to get back to Tharain and Derelei and warn them._

 _She wants to stay with Dillion._

 _Can't she take Dillion with her?_

 _The others would notice. They would search for him. She'd lead them straight to the village!_

 _Who's to say Leifr wouldn't betray her to the Northmen?_

Forcing the apprehension to dissolve from her features, Senua looked up and was startled to find the usually stony, dark blue eyes soft with something akin to fondness. The light from the hanging lamps bathed Leifr's bare torso in its warm glow, hiding the scars and carved runes beneath hues of orange. Her breath hitched when his hands reached to remove the headpiece made of silver and leather, her protection against the darkness.

Even though Senua was ready to lay down arms and even her very soul for Dillion, she wasn't brave enough to face the threat of darkness without any protection. Not even Dillion could shield her from the internal battles **—** all he could give was a little help. A little hope.

Shaking her head timidly in refusal, Senua gently pulled his hands away from the headpiece. "Please, don't. I need it."

To her relief, Leifr seemed to understand and made no attempts to pry his hands from Senua's, instead intertwining their fingers and resting his bearded chin against her scarred forehead. For the first time since encountering the Northmen in the forest, Senua felt safe enough to close her eyes and trust she would come to no harm. The soft kiss placed on her temple warmed her more than the open hearth or the man's close proximity.

"Kom", Dillion's voice whispered in her ear as Senua was gently lowered beneath the sheepskin rugs. "Hvíl."

Warm fingers stroked her face, calming even the Furies enough to quiet down in contentment. Through the crack of her lashes, Senua saw Leifr lean his back against the wall and keep watch, his other hand resting against the hilt of his longsword.

She realised then that she couldn't leave Dillion, not after finally reuniting with him. Somehow she would make this work and persuade him to come with her to Tharain's village, where they both belonged.

* * *

 _A/N: Hope you enjoyed. c:_

 _Liathplathadh = blue flash (gaelic)_  
 _broch = a stone tower where Picts would barricade themselves in during an attack_

 _Finn hana! = Find her!_  
 _Andskoti! = Fuck! (literally means 'enemy')_  
 _Pettsk bikkja! = Pict bitch!_  
 _Hon eru hér! = She's here!_  
 _Þú! Pettsk mær! Stǫðva! = You! Pict girl! Stop!_  
 _Hvat ger vér með hana? = What do we do with her?_  
 _Hon kømr með oss. = She will come with us._  
 _Bíð þú, hon blœðr. = Wait, she's bleeding._  
 _rassragr = faggot (emasculated, softhearted)_  
 _Tuath, Tuatha (pl) = what Irish called themselves back then_  
 _Kom þú hér, min meyla. = Come here, my little girl. (vulgar term)_  
 _Hverr eru þú? = Who are you?_  
 _Ek kenni þik eigi, þó... = I don't know you, yet..._  
 _Ná? = Well?_  
 _Ek för eigi heðani. = I'm not leaving._  
 _Skil þú mik? = Do you understand me?_  
 _Bíð þú hér. = Wait here._  
 _Hvat? = What?_  
 _Þat var ekki. = It was nothing._  
 _Þak. = Thanks. (very informal)_  
 _Ek hef þetta að þik. = I brought this to you._  
 _Kom. = Come._  
 _Hvíl. = Rest._


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Senua woke up to the sound of humming. The voice was sonorous, nothing like Dillion's soft timbre. Blinking blearily, she saw a man roughly her father's age sitting by the hearth, whittling away at a block of wood, and recognised him as the man dressed in wolfskins from the forest. Fire reflected from the curved blade of his battle axe like a silent warning. Senua knew a fellow warrior when she saw one; this man was no grunt with a weapon beyond his status.

His humming ceased.

"Svá, þú ert vaknaðr. Gott!" He didn't even turn to look at her, merely acknowledged she was awake and blew wood dust off the half-formed sculpture of a wolf.

Immediately up and alert, Senua fumbled for something to defend herself with, but found only the empty sheath and Druth's iron mirror hanging from her belt. Hadn't Dillion left her a weapon? A dagger, even a hunting knife would do. He wouldn't leave her defenseless after what happened with the sand-haired Northman, would he? Where had he gone?

 _He must have left her!_

 _No, Dillion would never leave her like that._

 _He isn't Dillion. He's been Leifr all along. He's one of them. She can't trust any of them!_

 _That can't be right. He sounds and acts like Dillion. He helped her._

 _Leifr must've sold her to that wolfman._

"Vertu kyrr!" The man's sudden command froze her in place and silenced the Furies' quarrelling. His eyes crinkled in a friendly manner, thin lips curving into a crooked smile as he raised his hands in appeasement. To prove a point, the man slowly disarmed himself and threw the weapon to her side. "Ek skal eigi valda þér mein."

Only once her fingers were securely wrapped around the handle of the heavy axe, did Senua feel the tension fade from her shoulders. If he was one of the berserkers as his lack of clothing suggested, she would have have tough time beating him even without her injury. Still, at least this way she had a chance at all unlike as an unarmed cripple.

The man turned his back to Senua and yelled. "Einarmr!"

The door to the longhouse opened and revealed a pale man with auburn hair and sunken eyes. The Tuath's well-worn tunic hung loosely around his malnourished figure as he fell on his knees by the wolfman's bare feet. While the berserker was muttering something to the slave and gesturing towards her, Senua took notice of the skittish man's hand, or rather, the lack of one; the sleeve was tied to a knot where his elbow should've been.

"Master Agmundr bids you good morning and suggests you leave the axe. You won't need it."

It felt impossibly good to hear someone speak familiar words after having to interpret gestures, silence and a language she had little knowledge of for so long.

The wolfman, Agmundr, put the sculpture and knife aside and spoke, his cordial tone a surprising contrast to his throaty voice. The Tuath listened carefully to his master's words. "Master Agmundr says Leifr Afkarr asked him to look after you while he's away."

He paused, lips stretching to a worried line and twisted his bony hands in discomfort. "He also says you stink."

Senua blinked, unable to decide how to feel about the statement.

Agmundr grinned and spoke more.

"Master Agmundr says you are to join the other women of the village in their weekly cleansing. He says he won't allow Leifr Afkarr turn his home into a sty, no matter how enamoured he might be." It was almost comical to hear such lighthearted words coming from the anxious translator's mouth. "I will escort you there."

Timidly, the Tuath offered his good arm for Senua to use as support. Agmundr followed them at a leisurely pace from a distance, merely making sure the two slaves wouldn't get any foolish ideas.

Once Senua was certain Agmundr was out of earshot, she whispered to the Tuath, "What's your name?"

The redhead glanced at her from the corner of his eye, but didn't dare turn his head. "My master named me Einarmr. It means one arm."

"And what do your parents call you?"

For a brief moment Einarmr's shoulders sagged as if by an invisible weight, but he quickly recovered and shook his head. "Doesn't matter. They're dead and so is the man I once was. Master Agmundr's will is my law and there's nothing more to it."

Frowning, Senua turned to glance back at the trailing wolfman, but Einarmr stopped her with a hissed protest. "Don't act suspiciously. The less reason you give them to be mistrustful of you, the more freedom they give you. You don't want to be chained to your post, do you?"

Mutely, Senua shook her head in disagreement and allowed Einarmr to take her to the heart of the village.

It was early in the morning. The sun was still partly hidden behind the horizon, but the town was buzzing with activity. Next to one of the smaller buildings were several dozen half-dressed men with damp skin and hair. A half-starved child with an iron collar on his neck served a great basin of water to the men so they could wash their hands, faces and hair before blowing their noses and spitting into the basin. Some used tiny spoons to remove wax from their ears, while others removed facial or body hair with razors and tweezers. All of them appeared to put much effort into combing and braiding their hair.

Senua tugged at the Tuath's sleeve to draw his attention. "What's happening?"

"Today is washing day or 'laugardagr' as the masters call it. Every sixth day of the week we are required to cleanse and wash ourselves. The women's bathhouse is further ahead."

While scouring the crowd of grooming men for Leifr's woad-eagled chest, Senua caught a glimpse of a familiar mop of beaded sandy locks. The sight of his injured hand wrapped in cloth was enough to freeze her insides as images of terror and abuse resurfaced in her mind's eye. The Northman's companions snickered and elbowed him, completely oblivious to how the poet's eyes darkened with enmity and humiliation.

"Keep your head down. You look like a warrior sizing up her foes. The masters don't take kindly to defiant thralls."

Following Einarmr's instructions, Senua ducked her head but not before demanding in a hushed tone, "What are they saying?"

The Tuath grimaced, clearly wishing the Pict would stop asking questions. "They're, ah, consoling Yngvarr Fjorisfingr, saying he was lucky his finger was bit off instead of his, err, member. They say 'Fourfingers' is more likely to strike fear in the hearts of their foes than 'Cockless'."

They hurried past the men, not wishing to attract any attention on themselves.

The women's bathhouse was much smaller than the men's, and for a good reason—only four women were present, helping each other strip from the many layers of cloth and open elaborate braids hidden beneath headscarves. Einarmr guided Senua to the women.

"I'm not allowed to go further. Tuilelaith, Una, Mallaidh and Fiona will assist you. I will take you back to master's home once you're clean." Einarmr turned tail and scuttled off like a startled hare. What could've made the poor man so nervous?

One of the women approached her. Unlike the other two adults, she was short like Senua and her dark hair was long and uncut. Tattoos in the style of the Picts from the kingdom of Fortriu peeked beneath the linen chemise. Her eyes were grey and serious, but her joyless smile felt welcoming nonetheless.

"You are Senua? Leifr Afkarr tasked me with finding you suitable clothing. I see they fit you well. I am Una, wife of Ossurr. Come, I shall teach you our ways." Una supported Senua while Tuilelaith, a freckled Tuath on the cusp of maturity, helped Senua unfasten the brooches and remove her woolen dress.

Senua blinked at the other Pict and felt the day-old woad on her forehead crumble as she scowled. " _Our_ ways? But you're not one of them."

Una's smile was wan when she shook her head sadly. "We are, and now you are, too. They own us. You should count yourself lucky."

"Lucky? How is being captured lucky?"

Fiona, a thin and frail-looking Tuath woman, pointed at Senua's neck. "You do not have an iron collar, but I see the imprint. Whoever removed it has taken a liking to you." She paused and trailed a finger over the bruise. "Once captured, a thrall is sold, used and abused with hunger and hardship as their constant companions until an early death reaps them." Her green eyes found Senua's. "Or they are like us: lucky and spared, with only a husband's needs to satisfy."

"We might not have married willingly, but it is the best outcome a woman of our origin and status can hope for", Una affirmed. "My brothers were sold in Hedeby, while my parents were sacrificed to the Norse gods. Only I am still alive and free to live with dignity and without the burden of shackles. Should the man take you as his wife, it is in your best interest to give in and forget the past."

She had wanted to marry Dillion before his death. She still wanted to.

 _He's not Dillion. He's Leifr._

 _It doesn't matter. Leifr has Dillion's soul and she can't marry Dillion without marrying Leifr._

 _Does he even want to marry her? She's nothing like these women._

 _Hela said he would not be content in anyone else's arms. He must want her._

Senua wasn't ready to abandon hope and succumb to the Northmen. The homes of these women might have been razed to the ground and their families sold and killed, but Tharain's village was still standing. She would find a way to escape and take Dillion and any willing slave with her. Saying nothing of her plans, Senua removed her clothes, sans her headpiece, and followed the women inside the small house.

The room temperature was sweltering, worse than even the hottest summer in recent memory. Next to the fireplace with stones was a long, wooden bench to which the women ushered Senua to sit down on. She watched Mallaidh toss water on the hot stones to produce steam and gritted her teeth when the heat descended from the roof. Why would these people participate in such strange practises? Senua felt like she was back in the land of mist and fog, running through the flames to challenge Surt. Druth had never mentioned such strange customs. Were slaves spared from this torture?

And if she were to marry, would Leifr expect her to go through this on a weekly basis?

Following little Tuilelaith's example, Senua took a bar of soap and began to scrub the year's worth of filth until her skin was pink and raw, and burning from the accursed heat. After Mallaidh had helped Senua scrub her back, they finished the strange ritual by washing their faces and hair as the men had by using a large basin filled with lakewater. Once they had dried themselves, the women stepped outside and dressed up in clean clothes that a slave had left for them.

Einarmr was already waiting, his back turned towards the women to give them privacy. His curly hair was damp and his tunic had been scrubbed clean from dirt.

Senua felt Una's hand on her arm. "Remember what I told you. I can see you are a warrior and it is in your nature to resist, but for your own good—don't. You may have your master's favour for now, but eventually the fascination will die. Unless you earn his affection, he will discard you to a life of torment. Once you accept your lot, I will be here to guide you, as I have Mallaidh, Fiona and Tuilelaith." With a final reassuring squeeze on her arm, the women went their separate ways to begin their day's work within their respective households.

Einarmr approached Senua, circling and studying her with squinted eyes just like her father Zynbel had whenever believing she was hiding something. The Tuath came to a stop, inhaled her scent and after a moment's consideration nodded curtly. "Much better. You are ready to begin your duties. Master Agmundr expects a hot meal waiting for him and Leifr Afkarr once they return home."

"They both live there? I thought it was Leifr's house."

"Leifr Afkarr lives in master Agmundr's home. However, master Agmundr sometimes stays outdoors to connect with the spirit of the Wolf."

Senua could recall no stories from Druth speaking of such practice, but didn't demand for a clarification. Instead, she accepted the offered arm and allowed herself to be led back to what she thought had been her sole sanctuary from the Northmen.

Most of the men had finished their business by the bathhouse grounds, leaving only the iron-collared slaves to clean themselves with lakewater under the watchful eye of a guard. Despite the Northmen's strange obsession with cleanliness, it appeared that the lowliest of slaves were not allowed inside the house of steam and torture. Senua wondered if she'd ever understand such a backwards culture. Perhaps if she took a page from Druth and learnt to communicate with her captors—and most importantly Dillion—she would have a better chance of finding a weakness to exploit within the Norse settlement and make her escape.

"Einarmr, will you teach me their language?"

The Tuath's usually reserved features lit up in surprise and delight. "It would certainly help both our positions. We aren't allowed to speak in any other tongue while within their earshot."

"Then you will help me?"

A sly smile curved Einarmr chapped lips. "If you reserve me a slice of bread and a slab of smoked meat within the folds of your dress, I'll teach you all I know."

* * *

Leifr studied his handiwork, a crutch carved from beech wood. It should serve the Pict girl well and allow her to move without constant need for a minder. He had left early that morning in hopes of bathing and finishing crafting before the thralls were done preparing day meal. At first Leifr had been hesitant to leave Senua's side, only deeming it safe to straighten his back after a night of restless dozing once Agmund agreed to keep an eye on the girl in his absence.

The focused crease on Leifr's brow eased when his thoughts returned to the previous night.

The girl had been quick to fall asleep under his gentle caresses, which proved how exhausted she must've been from the day's ordeals. For a time Leifr had entertained himself by counting the numerous silvery pink scars visible beneath layers of dirt and woad on her face, neck and hands. Not even Ossurr's wife, a Pict covered in colourful tattoos from head to toe, was as thoroughly marked by life. How different the two Picts' lives must've been had Skorri not led his men to Orkney.

Absently he had traced the sharp contour of Senua's collarbones, the paint peeling beneath coarse fingertips. Like most of the men within the settlement, Leifr was starved for a woman's touch. Yet despite having Senua completely at his mercy after saving her from Yngvarr, Leifr could not bring himself to act on his desires and force intimacy onto her. Whether his restraint was due to pity or intrigue or something else entirely, he could not tell.

It must've been puzzling for the old berserker to find Leifr dozing against the wall, chin to chest, next to the covered Pict.

" _That can't be a comfortable position to sleep in, son."_

Before even fully awake, Leifr had drawn his sword and pointed it at the intruder, blearily blinking to clear whatever dream still clung to his vision.

" _Expecting someone to come and steal her?"_ Agmundr had asked with a teasing grin.

Shrugging, Leifr had put the sword away and made sure the sheepskin rugs were comfortably around Senua. " _Plenty of men in line for her company."_

" _I don't see why you go through the trouble of dressing her when you haven't even tested her worth."_

Another shrug. " _If what Ossurr claims about Pictish concubines is true, the girl will satisfy me well enough."_

Agmundr's tone had dropped to low rumble, as if expecting Senua to be eavesdropping on them. " _She's not a mere ordinary thrall, lad, but a warrior. You'd best remember that or you'll be the next to visit the healer."_

" _And I am no Yngvarr. I know how to deal with disobedient thralls."_ As he trailed a finger over the cauterised slash on her forehead, Leifr had been amused to notice the sleeping Pict wrinkle her nose as if giving her opinion on the subject matter. " _I'll relish the challenge"_ , he had concluded.

Leifr could not explain it but there was a connection between the two of them and he needed to understand what it was, to make sense of his existence. The only clues to his previous life were locked behind the fragmented images Leifr had experienced when meeting Senua. No matter how he strained to remember his life leading up to his arrival in Hrossey, all Leifr ever could conjure in his mind were brief, disconnected memories that held no meaning on their own.

 _Oppressive darkness all around him and a distant flash of light far above him. Saltwater flooding his lungs, bubbles from a muted cry tickling his face and the sensation of freezing waters pulling him towards the bottom of the sea._

 _Rotten fingers caressing his bare torso, a haunting song full of possessiveness ringing in his ears until invisible shackles reduced his awareness and held his mind prisoner. Everlasting stench of putrid wounds that no downpour could wash away following wherever he wandered._

 _Branches of a great oak extending up towards fair summer skies. The quiet swish of its leaves swaying in a gentle breeze. The brilliant colours of cowslips, dog roses and bluebells dotting tall grass for as far as eye could see. A short burst of giggles akin to wind chimes from beside him as a feminine hand points at clouds of various shapes sailing overhead._

He couldn't make any sense of the images nor his sudden ability to understand the Pictish language. All he knew was that only through Senua he could unravel his shrouded past.

Setting the chisel aside, Leifr ran a hand over the smooth curve of the crutch meant to support the Pict's elbow.

Although she was now considered his—and by extension Agmundr's—thrall and expected to serve, Leifr had specifically told the wolfskin berserker to spare her from the more laborious tasks due to the injury received from Skorri. After all, what good would she be to them if her knee never healed? Crippled thralls were put to death.

Imagining the short Pict girl besting their burly chief brought a fond smile to his lips. What he would've given to see the fight with his own eyes. Leifr hadn't exactly developed any close ties to the man in the brief time he had had lived in Hrossey. To Skorri, Leifr had been an unreliability, a straggler with no memories and no place within their close-knit community. Had Agmundr not vouched for him and let Leifr prove his worth with a sword in hand, he might've been cast out and declared an outlaw, enslaved or even sacrificed with the unwanted and unprofitable thralls to appease their ever bloodthirsty gods.

Leifr wasn't alone in his dislike for the dead chief, however. There had been increasing discontentment within the ranks, even murmurs about a possible coup among some of the more hot-headed men. Leifr tried steer clear from politics and not get too involved, preferring to follow Agmundr's lead when it came to such matters. Despite this, he wasn't unaware of the possible causes for the chief's declining popularity.

All of the townsfolk were landless younger sons. In a society that practised primogeniture this meant they were heirs to nothing, and no self-respecting woman of the North would ever bind herself to a life of uncertainty with a man of no wealth—at least not without her family's approval. For these reasons it had been easy enough for Skorri to rally the men to his side, to set sail to the unknown and look for farmland and other means to make a living.

At first the men had been content to leave their old lives behind and seek their fortune in foreign lands. They had founded their small community, enslaved nearby tribes to work on the farms and stolen their livestock. But when Skorri had a taste of the profits that could be made in thrall trade, he could not keep his eyes off the Tuathan shores. His greed and constant raids to remote villages and monasteries got so numerous that half of the men had to give up raiding altogether to ensure their farmlands would survive and they'd have enough food to feed themselves, the thralls and the livestock. Eventually the community found a balance between farming and raiding, but even then not all were content.

Some of the older warriors were unhappy with their empty homes, for no gold could replace the warmth of a wife's touch or the joy of raising a child. It hardly came as a surprise that the husbands of the four thralls-turned-wives were all in their early thirties, while the younger men were content screwing thralls before taking them to Hedeby to be sold. However, it was not the simple folk of Tuathan or Pictish villages that Skorri sought to enslave, but learned men of monasteries for whom men of the East were willing to pay a king's ransom.

Leifr had even heard talk of men wishing to return to the Motherland, to show their wealth and win the heart of a Norse maid. Unfortunately for them, Skorri had seen such musings as treason, for he had been one of the many minor chiefs to leave when Harald inn harfagri founded the kingdom of Norway.

But the man was gone now, and despite not seeing eye-to-eye with him, it fell to Leifr and the rest of the townspeople to ensure their chief made the journey to the afterlife, lest he remain as a revenant and curse their crops.

As Leifr passed the slave pens, he saw that the thralls had already been released to work, save for the females. The elderly shaman was inspecting each pen, most likely looking for suitable leftover Tuatha to sacrifice for the dead warriors.

"Beginning the day early, Radugr?" Leifr called.

The key keeper snorted. "Need all the hands we can get to build the pyre for Chief. The wives have already taken the measurements and are working on the funeral gowns."

The mention of the women reminded Leifr of the crutch he had to deliver. He didn't exactly have high hopes for a one-armed thrall to serve as a support for a crippled one.

Leifr took a shortcut through the town and saw the townsfolk were already preparing for the ceremony that would be held in seven days after the funeral. Colourful flags were hung from rooftops and the marketplace was made ready for the many merchants the celebrations would attract from other colonies. Blacksmiths, bronze-casters, stone carvers, cup makers, potters, bead makers, carpenters and leatherworkers—all were hard at work. The air was filled with delicious smells coming from the meadery. Sounds of chatter, clanging hammers, sizzling metal and cutting of leather could be heard all across town. He even spotted Yngvarr fingering his beloved tagelharpa with his good hand and humming, possibly working on an ode for their fallen chief.

Once past the town, Leifr noticed the foundation of a funeral pyre on the hill overlooking the shore where Agmundr had originally found him. Building it were a dozen Tuathan thralls alongside a handful of warriors. The pyre was still in the early stages and would take several more hours before it was finished. The precise work was necessary to ensure the heat would be located in such a way that the bodies would burn effectively.

A gentle breeze brought the pleasant smell of freshly baked bread from the direction of Agmundr's longhouse. Leifr's stomach rumbled in anticipation, spurring him to jog the rest of the way home.

"Fyyy...rir… gef. Mik."

He paused at the door and listened to the muffled voice. Was Senua trying to speak Norse?

"Almost. Repeat after me. 'Forgive me.'"

Leifr had never heard Einarmr speak in his native tongue and was a little taken back upon realising he could understand the thrall perfectly, just as he had understood Senua.

"For...give me."

"Excellent! That's a good phrase to know when someone is displeased with you."

Neither of the thralls heard Leifr sneak in. Both were by the hearth with their backs towards the door. Einarmr appeared to be stirring something within the cauldron while Senua was cutting vegetables. On the table was the source of the tantalising smell—a loaf of bread hidden beneath a linen cloth. Placed beside it were two sets of cups, bowls and plates, meant for the Northmen.

"What is the most important phrase I should know?"

"'Yes, master.' Whenever you're addressed or something is asked of you, that's what you say."

"Yes, master."

Leifr bit back a grin. The girl sounded so serious, like she was swearing an oath rather than grovelling at someone's feet.

"No, no, no. Not like that", Einarmr scolded. "You have to sound humble and make yourself appear as unthreatening as possible. Never look into master Agmundr's eyes, he doesn't take kindly to any signs of defiance."

"What about Leifr?"

"What about me?"

The startled thralls jumped in near unison and turned to face the Northman.

"Leifr Afkarr, you've returned!" Einarmr immediately fell on his knees. "The day meal is soon ready to be served!"

Leifr paid the Tuath no mind, instead focusing on the shadowy figure of Senua and beckoned her over. Hesitantly, she limped to him and nearly lost her footing, but Leifr was ready to catch her and pulled the Pict beneath the light of a hanging lamp.

He hardly recognised her without the dirt and crumpling paint. She was no longer the feral child rolling in moss he had met in the forest, but a woman rivalling those of the North. Uncertainly, she clung to his arms to keep her balance and occasionally glanced towards the still kneeling Tuath for guidance.

"Sit." Leifr helped her to settle on a bench while he retrieved the crutch. "I made you this."

Senua turned the wooden pole around in her hands, unsure what to make of it. "What–?"

The exotic lilt of her accent had a funny effect on him. A swarm of butterflies seemed to awaken in the pit of his stomach, their nervous fluttering tensing every muscle in his body. Ignoring the strange sensation, Leifr took the crutch from her and demonstrated its proper use. "Let your elbow rest against the curve. Like this."

The girl's features lit up as understanding dawned on her and she accepted the crutch. It was like watching a newborn calf stumble and take its first shaky steps—that's how Leifr justified his need to hover protectively next to her, at any rate. She didn't seem to mind, though, when she flashed him a shy smile that could have melted the glaciers of his homeland.

Heavy footsteps from outside warned the thralls of their master's return. Einarmr leapt next to the cauldron while Senua hobbled back to peeling fruits and cutting vegetables.

The door flung open, revealing the old wolf who wasted no time with pleasantries. "Einarmr, have you familiarised the girl with her duties?"

"Yes, master Agmundr."

"Then why is the meal not yet served?"

"At once, master Agmundr!" Einarmr fetched a bowl for the stew. Senua moved to help the Tuath, one-handed as he was, but the berserker pulled her back.

"Hold up, girly. Aren't you even going to thank Leifr for all he's done? He took you in, clothed you, watched over you and now even wastes his morning making you a crutch."

Uncertainly, Senua looked back and forth between the two Northmen, clearly struggling to understand what was wanted of her.

"Yes, master." She offered with a modest bow of her head, earning an amused snort from the berserker.

"Let the girl be. She already thanked me", Leifr lied.

Agmundr raised a brow knowingly at the younger man, but released his hold on the Pict. "She's not a pet, lad. If she doesn't give you the respect you deserve, you take it by force."

Leifr merely grunted in acknowledgement before sitting down at the table. Senua served them the stew, buttered bread, fruit, vegetables and mead. The stew was flavourless and the bread was burnt on one side. It was obvious which of the thralls had prepared the meal, but Leifr didn't have the heart to comment on the quality knowing the older man was certain to give them their due.

The two thralls stood on the side, ready to serve should their masters call. From the corner of his eye, Leifr saw Senua fidget and hungrily eye the food. Curiously, Einarmr seemed content and didn't even sneak a glance at the table as he usually did. Leifr knew the thrall wasn't brave enough to steal food after Agmundr had caught him red-handed and cut his arm off. He must've found a way to use Senua to fill his belly.

Once they finished eating, Agmundr let out a hearty burp to signal that he was done and pushed his plate aside. Only the burnt side of his breadloaf was left on the plate which he tossed on the floor for the thralls. "You two will have to do better if you intend to eat tonight. I should have you whipped." His tone was almost jovial despite the threatening words.

Einarmr fell next to Agmundr's feet and wailed loudly. "Please, master! I had no part in preparing the food! Please don't punish me!"

"Be quiet!" The berserker kicked the Tuath half-heartedly. "I could tell. For once the stew didn't have any of those cursed herbs you always insist on putting in every dish. For that improvement alone I will have you two spared."

"Oh, thank you, master Agmundr!"

The thrall was silenced once more when the Northman raised his hand. "However, if she doesn't improve her cooking by tomorrow, you will share her punishment. She's now your responsibility."

With that Agmundr left. Leifr pretended not to notice when Senua picked up the burnt pieces of bread and hid them in her sleeve for later consumption.

"Einarmr, finish clearing the table and take Senua to the field. Milking the cows will be her task from now on."

He turned to leave as well to begin his work on the farm when he felt a small tug on his waistwrap. Head still bowed, Senua peered up at him and cautiously smiled as she clenched the crutch. "Tha...nk you."

She still had a long way to go when it came to speaking Norse.

Gently, he lifted her chin and offered a faint smile in return. "Don't mention it."

* * *

Einarmr led Senua to the lush fields on the outskirts of the village where the cattle grazed. They followed the sound of cheerful humming to a lone figure of a girl by whose feet were several iron buckets meant for milking. Upon hearing the pair approach, Tuilelaith pushed her windblown curls out of her eyes and greeted them with an excited wave. Out of all the wives of the Northmen she seemed the least affected by her new life, despite having a husband nearly three decades older than her. Senua could only hope it was due to Tuilelaith's husband's courtesy and restraint. How else could someone so young be happy, living with a man old enough to be her father?

Tuilelaith licked her finger and held it up to feel the direction of the breeze. "You're in luck! There's a favourable wind, so calling the cattle will be easy. I will teach you the herding call or 'kulning' as the Northmen call it."

The cows were scattered throughout the landscape, some being as far away as the edge of the highlands where tall grass ended and rocky shores began. From Senua's experience only a well-trained canine could shepherd with ease in such a scenario, but the Northmen didn't seem to share her view. The only dogs she ever saw were kept as guardians of the home. She had even witnessed a group of men betting on dogs that had been coaxed into fighting each other. How could the little Tuath possibly do an animal's job? Intrigued, Senua waited.

Tuilelaith let out a clear, high-pitched call that could've easily been a mournful song without words. There were no mountains for the sound to bounce back from, but the wind carried the girl's melodious cries all the way to the sea and beyond. Gooseflesh covered Senua's arms as she listened. The haunting melody reminded her of Hela's song, for it certainly didn't sound of this world or like any song she had ever heard within her own community.

The steady clatter of cowbells grew louder as the cattle began to move towards the caller. To think such a powerful voice could come from such a tiny body. Tuilelaith held on to the last note, letting it linger for a moment longer before turning to grin at Senua. "What do you think?"

Whatever the Pict had been about to say was drowned out beneath the sudden holler from a foreign voice. "Tullan!"

They spotted a young Northman, no older than fourteen summers, jogging towards them. His head was shaved on the sides while the remaining short, blond hair was braided. Beneath his yellow cloak he wore a rather shabby linen tunic. "Tullan, I heard your call and I've come!"

"Vidhugsi," Tuilelaith acknowledged with a mischievous smirk. "Since you've answered the herding call, does that make you a cow?" The ease with which she could adjust from her native tongue to the Northmen's was impressive.

Einarmr snorted, but quickly feigned coughing when the Northman fixed him with a glare.

"Even a mere man can confuse such a call with an elven song." Vidhugsi defended. "Imagine my surprise when I didn't find dancing elves, but little Tullan belting out!"

Tuilelaith linked arms with Senua. "I'm teaching Senua to call the cows, so we can milk them and make cheese."

The young man's beardless features lit up as if he'd just received his parents' inheritance. "Will you make me a gallon of buttermilk, Tullan? You know how much I like it, and yours was always the best."

"Vidy, you are such a child!" The little Tuath scoffed. "You should be drinking mead like the other grownups. And why are you still wearing that shoddy shirt I made? Didn't Una make you a new one?"

Vidhugsi shrugged. "She did, but I like yours better."

Senua and Einarmr exchanged amused looks. It was clear that this was a recurring scene between the freckled Tuath and lanky Northman.

Vidhugsi crossed his arms, a conspiring glint in his eye. "Look, if you make me that gallon, I'll give you any glass bead you like."

That seemed to catch the young Tuath's attention. "Any?"

"Make me cottage cheese and I'll even make one specifically for you, free of charge."

Tuilelaith's warm hazel eyes twinkled like little stars as she eagerly shook hands with the boy. "Deal!"

Then she addressed the Pict in Gaelic, going completely against all the warnings Einarmr had given Senua about using other languages than Norse in the Northmen's presence. "Come on, Senua, we have to round up the cows and get to work."

Strangely enough Vidhugsi didn't seem to even notice the breach in protocol. Perhaps he was all too happy to ignore such mishaps for the promise of his favourite treat or maybe—and this is what Senua personally leant towards more—it was because it was Tuilelaith and no other.

Just to be on the safe side, Senua stuck to Einarmr's teachings, pronouncing the foreign word with much uncertainty. "How?"

"Just do what I did. Shout at the top of your lungs, but make a little song out of it. Remember, you have to beckon them, so try to use a very inviting tone and a light pitch. Imagine you're calling to a child."

It couldn't be that hard, could it?

"Okay."

Senua took a deep breath and yelled. The harsh sound, akin to a warrior's battlecry, bore little resemblance to Tuilelaith's melodious calls. The cows certainly seemed to think so as they turned tail and scattered further apart to seek refuge from the Pict's unholy screeching.

"Freyja's tits!" Vidhugsi removed hands from his ears and roared with laughter. "That's sure to put even the revenants to shame!"

Not about to accept defeat, especially with a Northman-child mocking her, Senua set off to the nearest cow with the aid of her crutch, seething all the while. Once by the animal's side, she made shooing motions, waved her arms and crutch, even slapped its rear to make it move. When the stubborn creature refused to budge, Senua let out a litany of angry Pictish curses that would've ensured a beating from her father. Startled by the sudden verbal onslaught, the cow galloped away, straight towards the waiting Tuatha and Northman.

By the time all of the cows were rounded, Senua was dead on her feet. Vidhugsi, on the other hand, was hunched over and clapping his thighs as tears of hilarity streamed down his cheeks. Einarmr appeared to have left without a word to continue his errands as not risk his master's ire.

"You're really something. Never seen a cripple herd cows!" The Northman continued to cackle.

Tuilelaith patted the Pict's back comfortingly. "Don't worry about it, Senua. I'm good with animals and herding, but I can't make nice clothing to save my life. Likewise you must be better at something else."

"At least we can all agree that Tullan is better suited for beckoning and Sessi to drive them back to the fields. I'd say you two have good synergy."

Senua wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Sessi? It is Senua."

"If you're gonna live among us, you gotta fit in. Sessi's a good nickname."

 _What would Dillion think of her new moniker?_

 _Does Dillion even exist anymore?_

 _Sessi. Sessi, Sessi, Sessi._

 _She can change her name and clothes and even bathe like they do, but she'll never become one of them._

 _She has to remember why she's here. She's not here to befriend the Northmen. She's here to get Leifr and extract Dillion._

 _But what if Dillion can't be removed from Leifr? Then she'll be stuck with him._

 _It's not so bad. They're very much alike. Maybe Leifr will learn to be Dillion._

 _Maybe if Leifr learns the truth he will regain his identity as Dillion._

"Well, guess I should go and begin working on that bead, since it'll take me all night to inlay those patterns. But hey, it's worth it if I get my personal buttermilk supply. I'll see you around, Tullan, Sessi."

Vidhugsi hadn't taken so much as two steps when an angry voice halted him in his tracks.

"Vidhugsi Einradi, you son of a bitch, I've been looking all over for you!"

An unfamiliar Northman approached them. Unlike most of the townspeople, his hair was dark brown rather than the various shades of blond that Senua was accustomed to seeing. His face was mostly obscured by a scraggly beard and around his eyes were pronounced laughter lines. Senua supposed that he was often happy, but at that moment he appeared to be deadly serious.

"Hildingr?" Vidhugsi visibly paled and uttered a curse beneath his breath.

"That's my husband", Tuilelaith quipped, completely unfazed by the older man's harsh language. Senua wondered whether the little Tuath even fully understood the meaning of a husband and what would be expected of her as a wife once she was of age.

"Ever heard of the 'fool's grip', you snot-nosed brat? I know you put your hands on my wife!"

Vidhugsi slowly backed away. "It was just an accident, I swear! She was fitting this tunic on me and my hand slipped. Tullan, tell him!"

But to the lanky Northman's dismay Tuilelaith did nothing to help; she merely chewed on her lip to keep the traitorous grin from showing.

"As if! Come out and face me like a man! That scrawny arse of yours deserves a lesson."

"Oh yeah? Pick on someone your own size, you old goat!"

"Goat?! Why you rotten little—!" But Vidhugsi was already sprinting away. "Come back here, coward!"

Tuilelaith could no longer hold back the giggles and burst into clear laughter, unashamedly clenching her aching stomach with reddened cheeks. The sight of her sweet innocence quelled the older Northman's fury.

"He'll get what's coming, in a duel ring if nothing else. You girls get back to work, eh?" Before heading back towards the village, Hildingr ruffled his wife's hair with the fondness of a proud father. Tuilelaith swatted his hand with a pout, but even Senua could tell she took delight in the gesture.

Meeting men like Hildingr and Vidhugsi, Senua couldn't honestly claim that all Northmen were evil. There were familiar values like honour, love for family and desire to survive that she understood and even shared. Yet she wouldn't let their good humour and fascinating practises muddle her wits. There were still men like Yngvarr and Agmundr who cared little for her or her kind. Poor Einarmr was a living proof of the cruelty the Nordic brutes practised. As was Dillion.

* * *

Leifr shifted his weight from one foot to the other and eyed the far stretching, grey curtain of clouds looming overhead. It blocked the sun and promised rain for the evening which, while good for the crops, was rather bothersome for the men who had volunteered to build a burial mound after the funeral proceedings. Working on slippery and muddy soil in the gloom of dusk was not something Leifr looked forward to.

All of the townsfolk, including wives and thralls, were gathered around the funeral pyre. On top of it were placed the bodies of Skorri and the three scouts Thiokkr, Tafi and Aeisir, each dressed in pure white gowns of linen made specifically for the funeral. Nine female thralls of varying ages were chained next to the bodies to accompany their masters to the afterlife. Their protests and sobs were mostly ignored and even seen as appropriate, for there weren't many men shedding tears for their fallen leader. However, each man had removed their helmets and hats to show respect to the man who first led them to freedom from beneath the rule of a tyrant king.

By the foot of the pyre stood the elderly shaman and sole Norse woman of the settlement, who in a resounding voice accounted the deeds of bravery by the deceased in hopes of appealing to the Valkyries. Next to her, a Tuath woman tall enough to be mistaken for a man from afar—Kjarr's wife, Mallaidh—sang a solemn requiem to honour the fallen warriors. Various goods, such as luxury items and everyday necessities, were gathered in a wooden chest to be buried later with the ashes of the dead. Among them were the warriors' weapons—now bent to signify the end of their owners' lives as well as to deter grave robbers.

"May their bodies burn bright and reveal to us the brave souls, before the smoke carries them to their rightful destination in the afterlife", the shaman concluded and lowered her torch to set the pyre ablaze.

The Tuath wife's singing was drowned out by the tormented screams of the thralls who thrashed against their bonds in vain to escape the rapidly spreading flames.

With bated breath Leifr peered into the rising smoke, hoping to catch a glimpse of a departing soul. When one of the young thralls caught fire, he heard a sharp gasp from beside him and noticed Senua had covered her mouth with both hands as if to silence herself. Her crutch lay on the grass, forgotten, and her eyes were transfixed on the burning girl. She visibly trembled, but he couldn't tell whether it was from lack of support or an extreme emotional reaction. Acting on instinct, Leifr pulled the Pict girl to him, pressing her head against his chest to block out the sights and sounds.

A particularly shrill wail of a dying thrall left Leifr's ears ringing and he felt the Pict bury her face further against him. Something wet dribbled down on his bare skin. Was she crying? Her vice-like grip around him tightened to the point it disturbed his blood circulation, but Leifr didn't remove the girl off his person. Instead, he turned around to face the sea and stroked Senua's hair in an attempt to calm her.

Despite his best efforts, the Pict's body continued to shake uncontrollably from muffled sobs. Why was she behaving this way? Did she not understand what a privilege it was for a thrall to to join their master in the halls of Odin and partake in the bounty meant for only the bravest of men? A thrall's fate was to spend the rest of eternity in the cold embrace of Hela. The shaman had freely granted them what most Norse men coveted.

Perhaps he was looking at this from the wrong angle. After all, her kind had their own gods and beliefs of what happened after death. Had she known the sacrificed thralls personally? Leifr doubted it. Senua had shown no signs of affinity towards any of the thralls besides Einarmr. Yet something had clearly shaken her to the core.

"Mother."

Had Leifr not rested his chin against her forehead at that moment, he would have missed the softly uttered word. What did her mother have to do with anything? Leifr continued to listen, but she said no more. The sounds of her weeping were buried beneath the roaring of fire and screams of thralls still clinging to their lives.

"Shh. Don't be afraid. Leave it behind." Leifr felt like he was in a trance, similar to how old Agmundr often was before a battle. The cryptic, foreign words just seemed to come out of his mouth without any prompting on his behalf. At last Senua's hold on him loosened and her panicked breathing calmed down. "That's it. Breathe slow."

Leifr noticed Ossurr's wife watching them, her slender brow furrowed in worry. Perhaps it would be best to get Senua back to her chores and away from whatever was causing her so much pain. He wouldn't be able to comfort the girl when he and the other men were needed to erect a barrow over the remains of the deceased. With his free hand, Leifr motioned the older Pict over.

* * *

 _A warrior defeated by a strand of wool. How pathetic._

 _What else can we expect from someone who's spent most of her life locked in a pit?_

Senua glared at the fiber in her hand and clenched the spindle in the other.

"How do you make it look so effortless?"

For the umpteenth time Una—whose inhuman patience must've been a blessing from the goddess Ricagambeda herself—took the clump of wool, connecting it with the snag and twisted until the ruined yarn was as good as new.

"My brothers liked to jest that I was born with a spindle in hand, but it was my mother who taught me as soon as I could walk." The wistfulness faded from the Pict's voice when reality pushed the memories of better days aside. "It was because of my skill in sewing that Ossurr first took notice of me. I mended his overtunic and he returned the favour by making me his mistress. Later, he grew bored of the other concubines and sold them along with my brothers. On his return we were wed and I was recognised as his legal wife."

Sighing, Una shook her head to rid herself of the painful images and returned the spindle and yarn to Senua. "I'm surprised your mother never taught you to spin or weave."

Already Senua's concentration began to waver as she stared at the piece of unworked wool with welling eyes. Pinch, draft, let go, spin. Repeat.

 _If only she could've stopped her father. None of this would have happened._

 _She was only five, what could she have done?_

Her voice was brittle when she finally found the willpower to reply. "She died before she could teach me."

Seeing those poor slave girls burn alive before her eyes had pulled Senua back to that harrowing night. She could vividly recall Galena's pained screams and how the flames had licked her bound body until the skin was charred and her face beyond recognition. The sickly stench of burnt cloth and flesh still haunted her.

But when the vision and the Furies' accusations were about to become unbearable, Leifr had brought her back from the clutches of darkness and granted her sanctuary in his arms. The way the Northman had caressed her hair and held her reminded Senua of how Dillion always comforted her after a nightmare. Leifr had mumbled softly against her ear, words she couldn't recall, but could've sworn were not Norse but Pictish.

Could a part of Dillion be awakening within Leifr? It was getting harder to tell where Leifr ended and Dillion began. Maybe they were truly one and the same. The Northman certainly had a knack for showing kindness to Senua when no-one else would and giving her hope when there was none, and just like Dillion, being completely unaware how much it truly meant to her.

 _She believes what she wants to. She sees Dillion in Leifr's every little gesture._

 _But how could a Northman walk and talk exactly like Dillion and not be him?_

 _She's clinging on to a fool's hope, just like Tharain warned._

Deep down, Senua knew that Leifr could only be her Dillion. Everything, from his voice to the way he behaved, proved as much.

Coming to a conclusion, Senua inhaled a shuddery breath. It didn't matter if she couldn't separate the Northman from her lover—she could love the man as a whole. All Senua needed was a moment alone with Leifr to convince him of his true nature.

The two Picts sat in contemplating silence, listening to the crackling and popping of dying flames, neither wishing to rekindle the hearth after watching their kin be burnt alive. The air felt unusually still without Einarmr's constant shuffling in the back of the house. The men had yet to return, leaving Senua and Una to occupy the longhouse by themselves.

Eventually Senua felt the other Pict's warm hand rest against her back. The older woman's voice was laced with pity when she spoke. "I'm sorry about your mother. What of the other women in your village? Did they not offer to teach?"

Senua bit her cheek, not daring to look up into those solemn grey eyes. She hadn't told the truth about her condition to Tharain, Derelei or even Veda, how could she possibly confide in Una?

 _It's not worth the risk._

 _No-one will ever accept her as she is._

 _Only Druth and Dillion never abandoned her._

Suddenly the door flew open, startling both Picts. In came old Agmundr, his pendant and battle axe swinging with each long stride as he went to fill a tankard with ale. Once his thirst was quenched, the wolfskin berserker settled down next to the women, his bare feet carelessly raised to rest against a post. He lazily eyed at the unfinished spindle of yarn in Senua's white-knuckled grip.

"You'll have to do better than that, girly. There's not enough yarn for even a single sock."

Senua stared at the floor and replied clumsily in Norse. "Yes, master."

The Northman snorted, not buying the meek act for a second. A warrior who killed their chief, three scouts and bit off fingers could hardly turn into an obedient servant over the course of a couple of days. "I don't know what the lad saw in you to tear his only tunic for the sake of your knee, but you can't expect him to prance around nude like you barbarians do."

Una saw Senua's posture stiffen and intervened before the younger Pict could do or say anything rash. "And he shall receive a tunic worthy of a warrior, master Agmundr. Senua will learn to weave and sew as did little Tuilelaith."

"See to it." Having finished his mead, Agmundr straightened up and grabbed Senua by the hair, forcing her to face him. "Leifr might go easy on you, but I won't suffer leeches under my roof. The moment you're not wanted in his bed, you go back to the pens with the rest of them. You do your part like a good thrall and I _might_ let you have scraps from the table, got that?"

Jaw clenched, Senua averted her gaze lest the berserker see the hatred bubbling under her calm façade. Little would be gained by acting on impulse when she had yet to win Leifr over. "Yes, master."

To Senua's relief, Agmundr let go of her hair and left the house. He would be unlikely to return before night meal, the heartier meal of the day. As eager as Senua was to rush Einarmr to teach her more Norse and finally actually talk to Leifr, she would have to take things slowly. For one, she needed her strength, and in order to be at her best, she needed to eat, which meant she needed to spin enough yarn to satisfy the wolfskin berserker.

Gritting her teeth, Senua continued to work under Una's tutelage.

* * *

Leifr watched Senua scrub the bowls and plates clean in a basin. Her cooking hadn't improved since day meal, but he knew these things took time. Einarmr made passable meals, adding his own spin with dried Tuathan herbs that in Agmundr's opinion had no place in food. At least the Pict hadn't surprised them with any strange combinations of flavours; her cooking was as bland as one could expect from a barbarian. Still, Leifr didn't doubt she would learn like the rest of the wives.

As if sensing his eyes on her, Senua paused and looked up, her lips slightly parted in a silent query.

She was beautiful.

A shimmery bead of sweat trailed down from her hairline which she hastily wiped on a sleeve of her chemise. She was still unaccustomed to the many duties of a female thrall and the fatigue was starting to show on her cheeks as a rosy blush. The colour seemed to deepen the longer Leifr held the Pict captive under his scrutiny. One of the wives had given her a headscarf which she now donned to keep her long locks from getting in the way. Despite the numerous scars, her skin had a healthy glow, unlike the Tuathan wives who looked almost sickly pale in comparison. The Pict was fit and strong as a warrior should be—if a little malnourished—and the woolen dress Ossurr's wife had given hugged Senua's curves in all the right places.

"Don't slack, girly." Agmundr barked from the other side of the house. Immediately Senua set back to work, but Leifr didn't miss her sneak a glance or two in his direction.

He came to a conclusion. Senua was Leifr's by law and it was time he claimed what was rightfully his. Agmundr certainly was of the same mind, ever worrying that treating thralls too leniently would spark a rebellious streak in them.

Leifr waited for Senua to finish her work. Once done, she knelt by the old berserker's feet and patiently waited for her next task.

"I believe that's enough for today, Senua", Leifr said and tossed a log into the fire before beckoning her over. Ever compliant, the Pict settled next to him on the bed. Leifr couldn't quite tell whether the light pressure of her thigh against his was intentional or not as Senua fixed him with those wide doe-eyes. The pleasant smell of soap wafted to his nostrils. Leifr found it almost amusing how much a good scrubbing could increase even a barbarian's allure.

"You've done well today. Even the old wolf is pleased, although he might not show it."

"And you?"

Her sincere question caught Leifr by surprise. In that moment Senua looked small and vulnerable, nothing like the warrior he had admired mere minutes ago. His approval was important to the Pict for reasons other than a thrall seeking to earn her master's favour, yet Leifr couldn't imagine why.

"You've yet to disappoint", he admitted.

Senua bowed her head in humility, but the Northman could see the budding curve of a shy smile.

Removing her headscarf, Leifr was rewarded with thick wool-like clumps of dark brown hair spilling over the Pict's narrow shoulders. She had a wild sort air about her that no amount of scrubbing or converting could tame, yet Leifr found this quality appealing—exciting even.

His hands came to rest on either side of Senua's face and drew her in for a kiss. The Pict didn't even put up a token resistance, instead allowing her chapped lips mesh together with his seamlessly and fight for dominance. Ever the warrior, just as Agmundr had warned.

They pulled apart followed by an audible smack of swollen lips disengaging and took shaky and shallow breaths. Somewhere along the line Senua had climbed on his lap and undone his braid, leaving flaxen hair free for her fingers to play with. Leifr didn't have any recollection of resting his hands on the Pict's thigh and the small of her back, either, but he wasn't about to complain about the turn of events.

"It would appear you're not too upset with me, either."

The Pict giggled, her voice silvery bright as a wind chime, before hiding her face in the Northman's neck to muffle the sounds of mirth. Through the layers of linen and wool, Leifr could feel the anxious beating of her heart as she relaxed against him.

For a moment they sat still and listened to each other's breathing. Then, Leifr reached up to unfasten the brooches on her straps. Senua gave no protest, not even when her dress fell on the pounded earth. Soon her chemise followed, leaving the Pict in nothing but leather shoes that she readily kicked off her feet.

Leifr made to remove his waistwrap, but Senua pushed his hands aside and took over, receiving a chuckle for her cheekiness. There was no denying he rather liked the feeling of the Pict's nimble fingers on him as she worked to remove his trousers.

Once both were free from any and all hindrances, Leifr lowered Senua to rest against the sheepskins and hovered over her, careful not to hurt her injured knee. To think just the other night he couldn't have imagined even laying a finger on the Pict without her consent.

His underlying concern must've shown, because Senua moved to lace their fingers together and offered him a reassuring smile. She must've wanted this, too, because no thrall would ever be this keen to warm their master's bed, not even for the promise of freedom.

In spite of both his and the Pict's eagerness, Leifr was not in a hurry to make love. Instead, he chose to hold back, to admire and memorise every detail, every slender curve and scar of her nude body and the way her dark hair billowed around her with each shuddery breath. He might not have any memories from before his life in Hrossey, but damn it, if he wasn't going to make new ones to fill the blank.

Her hand clenched his, demanding he stop stalling.

Leifr wasn't about to keep a lady waiting.

* * *

Senua cracked an eye open, only to immediately regret it as a ray of sunlight momentarily blinded her. She covered her sensitive eyes with her arm, but the sudden movement caused the man next to her stir.

"Senua?"

"Go back to sleep, Dillion", she mumbled.

Her lover's breathing slowed down as sleep caught up with him once more. Senua was content to follow his example until she felt someone shake her shoulder. Blinking blearily, she tried to make sense of the blurry image of a wolf next to her.

"Get up, girly", it growled. The words were foreign to her, but she understood their meaning. "Don't make me repeat myself."

Carefully, Senua removed Dillion's arm from her waist as not to disturb him and left the warmth of their bed. What could be so important to disturb their bliss? Cold clothes were shoved in her arms. "Get dressed. You have work to do."

"Can't this wait?"

The wolf painfully grabbed her by the hair and forced her down on the still healing knee. Senua bit her lip to silence her whimper. "I won't tolerate that filthy language in this house. Understand?"

Mutely, Senua nodded and held the clothes to her bare chest. The wolf let go of her and retreated to the hearth. It was then Senua realised it was none other than Agmundr. Turning towards the bed, she saw the straw-coloured hair of Leifr peeking from beneath the covers.

 _Was it all a dream? Being back in the village with Dillion?_

 _Such a pleasant dream it was._

 _But reality isn't all bad._

The Furies giggled as Senua relived each heated moment from the night before. She had needed only to close her eyes to hear Dillion's voice panting her name, to feel Dillion touch her in ways that only he knew how. It was as if the Northman had cast a spell on her, convincing she was back in Dillion's village, in their shared roundhouse.

"Let the lad sleep, girly. Been a while since he's had a good night's rest." Agmundr's voice was uncommonly gentle when he spoke. It might've been just the shadows playing tricks on her, but Senua could've sworn she saw a glimpse of a fatherly smile grace the old berserker's lips.

By the time she was dressed, Einarmr had returned to start another day in service to his master.

* * *

Leifr crossed his arms and eyed the large gathering of men that had assembled in the mead hall for what they called a _Thing_ , a communal meeting of free men to decide matters of importance, such as laws—or in their current case, their new chief. He and Agmundr, as well as the rest of the warriors, farmers and craftsmen were present. One could barely hear themselves think as men competed over who got to have their say.

"Skorri left no successor, yet we cannot remain leaderless."

"Only the strongest deserves the position."

"It takes more than strength to lead. One must have wisdom, experience and foresight."

Agmundr ignored the several expectant glances the twenty-odd warriors cast his way, just as Leifr had predicted. The old wolf was content being in charge of his household and to lead by example in battle, as was the norm for berserkers, but he had no interest in leading the whole community.

Finally fed up with the old berserker's aloofness, Radugr raised his voice. "What say you, Agmundr Ulfhedinn? Are you not the strongest and the most experienced?"

Leifr immediately recognised the playful glint in Agmundr's eye. "You would pry this old man from the comfort of his home to sit on a throne better suited for a man in his prime?"

"Then who would you propose take Skorri's place?" Yngvarr demanded, always the impatient one.

Agmundr lazily scoured the crowd for a particular man. "Hildingr Kyrri, I've heard you've been in the presence of royalty."

The dark-haired Northman eyed the older warrior, not following the berserker's logic. "Aye, my wife's family."

"Story goes you and your men were ordered to kneel and kiss the king's boot. Your men refused, but you had something else in mind."

A slow grin curved Hildingr's lips. "Aye. I grabbed the king's foot and raised it up to my lips. The king didn't say anything about not dangling him upside down while doing it."

A chorus of roaring laughter broke the tense silence. Even Yngvarr's grim visage broke and he chortled with the rest.

"So I say." Agmundr cast a meaningful look to Radugr. "That Hildingr Kyrri be crowned our leader, for he alone has experience treating royalty as well as the strength and wisdom required."

"Not him", Vidhugsi groaned from beside Leifr.

A round of applauses and hollering followed as Hildingr was gifted with the symbols of a chief; an iron helm, a ceremonial axe and a pendant with Thor's hammer. A thick bearskin cloak was wrapped around his broad shoulders.

After the men had drank their fill in honour of their new chief, Agmundr and Leifr began to head back towards their home.

"So, was the girl everything you hoped for?"

"Ossurr seems to have spoken the truth, at least this once." Leifr smirked. "I may have to give her the key to my property."

Agmundr teasingly tested the younger man's forehead. "You sure you aren't catching a fever?" Then, more solemn, the wolfskin berserker dropped his heavy hand on Leifr's shoulder. "All jesting aside, aren't you getting ahead of yourself, son? One night with the thrall and you're already taking her before the priest. You should make sure she's fully tamed before giving her the privileges of a Norse woman."

"And how long do you think I should wait?"

"Long enough to find out if you're the one who has tamed her and not the other way around."

Leifr frowned. "What are you saying?"

"She's got you wrapped around her pinky, lad. Next thing you know, she'll have you free the other thralls to prove your affections." Agmundr exhaled a long, heavy sigh. "All I'm saying is to be careful around her, son. Skorri might have been a greedy fool, but even he knew to fear the Picts and their black magic."

Leifr clasped the berserker's hand, expression grave as he vowed. "Alright. I won't have her recognised as my wife before I have your blessing."

The men continued to walk towards the field. The little wife of Hildingr was already there, calling for the cattle, and beside her was none other than Senua, bucket in each hand for milking. Agmundr followed Leifr's gaze to the Pict thrall and stroked his greying beard.

"That said, I've never seen you sleep so peacefully, I'll give you that. Guess all you needed to get rid of those nightmares was a woman's touch."

The younger man shrugged. "Maybe. Or just hers."

* * *

 _Maybe he's not interested in her at all. Maybe he just wants to use and eventually discard her, just like Una said._

 _Even if he did discard her, he'd never be satisfied with another woman. That's what Hela said._

 _Hela's a liar!_

Ignoring the Furies' usual quarreling, Senua plucked another apple from the lowest branch and tossed it into a woven basket. Even at her full height she couldn't reach any higher, and with her knee still causing her grief, she couldn't exactly climb, either. Senua glared at the apple dangling just out of her reach and used her crutch to knock it to the ground before picking it up.

While Senua was glad to put off the infernal weaving for another day and have the opportunity to secretly consume an apple or two, she was by no means happy with her lot. It had been five days since Senua had exchanged a single word with the painted Northman. Whenever she chanced a glimpse of his woad-eagled chest, Senua had to worry about Agmundr breathing down her neck to finish whatever task he had come up with. Nothing escaped the old berserker's watchful eyes and if Senua dared to push her luck with half-measures, she would retire unfed that night. Even when Agmundr was away and Leifr happened to pass by to have a quick cup of mead before returning to the field, Senua could never seem to catch him alone. Either Einarmr or one of the wives was teaching her or Leifr had company.

The only times Leifr wasn't out working in the fields, hunting or passing time with the other men was during the day and night meal and, of course, nighttime. At night Senua couldn't hope to have a meaningful conversation with the man when she was trapped beneath his body and giddy with desire as his warm mouth and hands explored every inch of her. To make matters even more difficult, there was hardly any privacy within the longhouse—only screens of wood and draperies obscured their amorous activities from Agmundr. Even if Senua could've articulated herself under Leifr's attentions, the old berserker would've heard every word and put an end to their affair.

Senua took another bite of the apple hidden in her sleeve, its sweet juice turning sour as she chewed and thought of the fair-haired Northman. Leifr hadn't made any effort to seek her out after the healer had checked on her knee. How was she to persuade him to leave with her if he wouldn't have a single private conversation with her?

The Furies scoffed and giggled, each coming with their own foolish answers to her rhetorical question.

Suddenly Senua was turned around and pushed until her back was pressed against the trunk of the apple tree. Strong hands held her wrists captive above her head. Before she could panic and attempt to fight off the assaulter, a familiar mouth descended towards hers, teasingly peppering her parted lips with small pecks and tasting the sweetness of apples.

"Someone's been enjoying the bounty", Leifr accused with a faint smirk on his lips.

Her cheeks warmed to a beet-red hue and she mumbled in broken Norse. "...Hungry."

The Northman's grin widened. "That's why I told the old wolf to send you to gather alone."

Puzzled, Senua frowned. "Eat apples?"

A chuckle. Oh, how she had missed that sound.

"That, and so nobody would disturb us." His lips trailed down the bridge of her nose and cheek, pausing to caress the corner of her mouth. "I've missed you."

It was far too easy to surrender to his care and forget about everything else.

 _She has to convince him._

 _She can't leave without him._

 _She needs to take him with her and warn Tharain and his people._

Senua snapped out of the pleasant haze. She had waited for days for this golden opportunity to actually talk with Dillion's vessel. This was her only chance.

Leifr grunted a protest when Senua turned her head to break the kiss. It was the first time she had ever denied him. Before Leifr could pull back and try to make sense of her sudden reluctance, Senua leant forward to whisper against his ear. "Remember me?"

Leifr pulled away from their embrace, releasing Senua's wrists and leaving her to stagger against the tree from loss of support. The space between their bodies felt far wider and colder than it ought to as Leifr fixed her with a skeptical glare.

"What do you mean by that?"

Thinking quickly, Senua removed her warrior pin and placed it in Leifr's palm. "You gave. Remember?"

Leifr turned the pin around in his hand and ran a thumb across its smooth surface, but nothing seemed to spark recognition. "When did I give this to you?"

"Warrior trial."

He wasn't outright denying her claim and was willing to humour her—for now, at least. It had to be a good sign.

"We don't have warrior trials." Leifr fastened the brooch on the neckline of her chemise. "So, how do you explain that?"

Senua racked her brain for words that would convey her meaning. Telling the truth was the only way Leifr would ever agree to run off with her.

 _She's trying this too early._

 _She can't convince him when she speaks like a geilt who has forgotten how to speak._

 _She can't wait forever! Every day she waits, she risks the Northmen finding the village! She has to warn them!_

"You know me. You forget. You come back. Hela promised."

The Northman was quiet, scrutinising her and weighing the worth of her words. Then, Leifr lifted a hand to cup her cheek and watched as Senua leant into his touch like the day he first took her in. For a brief, hopeful moment, Senua thought she saw a glint of realisation in the Northman's eyes.

"The old wolf warned me about you." Leifr's tone was placid, almost thoughtful as he caressed the length of her jawline. "You're far too perceptive for a thrall. But I'm no fool. I know what you're doing." Abruptly and painfully he grabbed her chin and lowered his voice to a dangerous growl. "You're trying to take advantage of my memory loss and claim I'm one of your people or some such nonsense."

"But you are!" Senua placed a palm over his heart where the blue tail of the eagle ended, wishing she could make the Northman understand in spite of her poor language skills. "You paint… I know why–!"

Roughly, Leifr shoved her, his words chilly as winter winds when he spoke. "Enough. You are wasting your breath."

"Dillion!"

Senua grabbed his arm to stop him, but Leifr yanked himself free and snarled. "You should go back to the house and finish that tunic, so Agmundr will finally shut up about it."

He didn't even look back when the Pict's legs gave out, forcing her to sink on her knees. Defeated, Senua hung her head and silently wept.

* * *

"Do you think the Pict girl is one of those hermit types that live in the wilds?"

Leifr cast a curious glance at Radugr before continuing sharpening his sword. "If she is, it's not by choice, I don't think."

Radugr leant against the shed next to Leifr and absently twirled a dart between his fingers. "Because if she's not, there might be a village nearby."

"Possibly. Agmundr told me Skorri was more interested in exploring the land of the Tuatha than Hrossey."

"Aye. He got his sights on bigger and better loot." Backing away from the shed, Radugr aimed and threw the dart. It landed on the edge of the bullseye and earned him a low whistle of approval from Vidhugsi. Radugr readied another dart. "Me? I'd be more interested in finding something worthwhile closer to home for a change."

"Thralls always sell, but the quality is harder to guarantee than that of the riches looted from a monastery. And the monks don't fight back unlike the locals." While Leifr knew his arguments were sound, he couldn't help but feel he was trying to persuade his kin to leave Senua's people be. When had he taken the Pict's side?

" _Barbarian loving asshole."_ Yngvarr's spiteful words rang in his ears.

Radugr shrugged. "We're shorthanded thanks to the funeral and harvest's just a month away. Besides, you can't bed a monk."

"Maybe you haven't tried hard enough." Vidhugsi grinned.

Ignoring the adolescent, Radugr gathered the darts from the board. "All I'm saying is that we should go explore beyond the forest we found the girl from. Only this time we bring all the lads. The more the merrier."

Leifr set the whetstone aside and studied his distorted reflection on the blade. For a brief moment he could have sworn he saw a Pict man staring back at him. "And once we find what you're looking for, then what?"

Another dart landed on the bullseye.

"Then we nicely ask their leader to give up their goods and womenfolk."

* * *

 ** _A/N: [Edit 16/1/2020: I've anglicised all the names.]_**

 _Translations:_

 _Svá,_ _þú ert vaknaðr. Gott! = So, you're awake. Good.  
Vertu kyrr! = Calm down!  
Ek skal eigi valda þér mein. = I won't hurt you.  
_ _Afkarr = Strange (byname)  
laugardagr = Saturday (literally washing day)  
Fyrirgef mik. = I'm sorry.  
kulning (Swedish) = herd call  
fool's grip: According to viking law when someone grabs a married woman's ankle, they get fined and the fines grow the higher the hand goes. But if said man were to touch the woman's knee or higher, he wouldn't get fined, because he would have to answer to the woman's family and he'd be lucky to escape with a beating.  
_ _Ulfhedinn = wolfskin shirt (byname)  
Kyrri = calm, peaceful (byname)_


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"I think you're starting to get the hang of it", Una commented as she inspected the unfinished fabric stretched across the warping board. "It already looks better than what Tuilelaith has been able to produce for the past nine months that I've taught her."

The older Pict's compliment hardly inspired confidence or sense of accomplishment in Senua; she remembered the shabby tunic the little Tuath girl had made for Vidhugsi, which was barely better quality than the tattered rags of Einarmr. "Do you think it'll be good enough for Leifr?"

With a thoughtful 'hmm', Una faced the younger woman. "What you should be asking is whether it'll be good enough for master Agmundr. I have a feeling Leifr Afkarr will be happy with anything you make for him. As for master Agmundr, well, we will just have to wait and see, won't we."

Senua could only hope the two Northmen would take a liking to her work. After her failed attempt to reveal the truth about his nature, Leifr had cut her off completely, refusing to even look her in the eye. The nights that used to promise her safety in his arms, away from the sneers and hostility of the Northmen, were now just as unwelcoming as the daylight hours. But Senua wasn't discouraged in spite of the Furies mercilessly bombarding her with doubts. The fact that Leifr still allowed Senua in his bed proved that there was a part of him that wanted to believe and protect her. If only Senua had the words to convey what he needed to hear.

For now, all she could do to repay Leifr's kindness was to replace the tunic which he had selflessly torn to shreds for the sake of her injured knee. Knowing how chilly the late-summer evenings got in Orkney, the Pict couldn't help but wonder whether the man regretted his act of generosity while labouring outdoors—like he was at that moment.

She could hear Leifr chopping firewood outside the house. His muffled grunts reminded her of the times Dillion had sparred with her; how they playfully danced with blunt swords until the other was disarmed and how their following mock-wrestling would end in an embrace among the tall grass, hidden from her father's hateful gaze. The two of them could spend hours watching the clouds sail the skydome, comparing and competing over the shapes they conjured out of silvery swirls and white cotton.

Her reminiscing was cut short when Una spoke. "It is getting late. I should go, Ossurr will be expecting me."

There was a hint of dread in the older woman's tone that didn't go unnoticed by Senua. Despite never having suffered the misfortune of meeting Una's husband, Senua had learnt of the man's sudden and fierce temper from Einarmr and how he was slow to forget injustice or mockery. Teaching Senua, away from such a man, must've been a welcome respite to Una.

"You could stay the night", Senua suggested, but upon seeing the older woman's scowl, hurried to add: "We could ask Einarmr to notify Ossurr that you'll be working late with me. I'm sure Agmundr wouldn't mind."

Long untamed hair gently swayed as Una shook her head, a thin smile on her lips that was both cold and bitter. "I appreciate your consideration, Senua, but my husband already finds it questionable how much time I spend in master Agmundr's household. I must return lest his temper flare."

After the Picts had bid each other goodnight, Einarmr offered his good arm to escort Una back to Ossurr's residence. Ever since Una began to visit Senua at Agmundr's home, Einarmr had made it his life mission to provide any aid the older Pict could ever require, whether it be fetching mundane items, offering helpful input when she taught Senua or walking her home. The sudden change in the one-armed slave's behavior perplexed Senua, because for as long as she had known him, Einarmr had never volunteered to take any additional workload without a reward, no matter how small or insignificant the labour. There was no indication of a shared history between the two of them, either, as Una didn't treat him any different from the other slaves and settlers.

But their relationship wasn't any of Senua's business, really.

Brushing the matter aside, she waited for the door to close with a creak and lay down on Leifr's bed to contemplate. His scent lingered in the sheepskin covers and the pillow stuffed with eider feathers. While it wasn't as earthy as Dillion's had been, Senua took comfort in the smoky smell of sweat, pine resin and mead. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine arms covered in fine flaxen hair holding her and easing the gentle ache she felt whenever thinking about the man. She missed him so much.

Senua wondered if the scent of Ossurr had the exact opposite effect on Una. Just imagining having a constant invisible reminder of someone like Yngvarr made the Pict's skin crawl and her hand instinctively clench the empty sheath of Liathplathadh. Una's suffering gave Senua one more reason to escape this gods' forsaken settlement, warn her people and drive away the invaders from their islands. Somehow, she would find a way to free all the slaves—whether Tuathan or Pictish—living beneath a Norse heel.

 _How can she hope to escape with an injured knee? She wouldn't make it even past the pasture before someone spotted and killed her. She doesn't even have a weapon to defend herself with._

 _She must win Leifr over. She needs Dillion's cooperation._

 _But he won't even look at her!_

 _Then she has to make him see her and what is at stake._

 _Leifr's one of them, he'll never side with her._

Senua squeezed her eyes shut. Lofty ideas had gotten her far before, but she was just one woman against a hundred villagers. While most of them were armed and with combat experience from raids, only two dozen of them appeared to be dedicated warriors. Still, she would have to take things slowly. "One step at a time", as Dillion had advised when she stumbled blindly in unnatural darkness for the right to claim Gramr. She needed to regain Leifr's trust and to do that, Senua needed him to stop treating her as a mere slave.

* * *

Leifr tucked a pair sheepskin mittens under his ring belt and took a long swig from his flagon. The skin of his upper body was cool and clammy from the combination of chilly evening air and fresh beads of sweat. With the amount of firewood Leifr had cut, the old wolf's hearth would easily be kept alight for several weeks straight. Noticing the one-armed thrall and Ossurr's wife leave the house, Leifr offered them a polite nod in parting and sat down on the stump he had been chopping logs against.

The wives of Ossurr, Sjurd and Kjarr had been taking turns to visit Senua and help her learn the ropes. Leifr didn't doubt the arrangement was partly due to Agmundr's insistence, since the man had been acting as if winter was waiting just around the corner. Leifr could survive just fine without a tunic for another month or two, but once the old wolf made up his mind about something, there was little one could do about it. The whole argument was rather rich coming from a man dressed in nothing but a wolfskin. Then again, resisting extreme temperatures was expected of a berserker.

"I'm starting to think you're purposefully avoiding the house, lad."

Leifr snorted. Speaking of which.

"Afraid the chores won't do themselves, and with Einarmr taking on Senua's responsibilities and performing them with a fraction of her efficiency, there's plenty of work to get done around here."

Leifr found the one-armed thrall's compliance suspicious. Even though the young man didn't dare to openly defy his master's will, Einarmr wouldn't have been able to keep his characteristic passive aggressive grouching to himself. Leifr would've picked up on the thrall's displeasure by now. He concluded that Senua must've bribed the thrall with stolen food to do her outdoor chores while she was confined to the house.

Agmundr raised a brow knowingly. "We did manage just fine before you took the little foxglove under your wing. You sure you wouldn't rather be inside where it's warm and you can actually see what you're doing?" Nonchalantly, the berserker gestured at the nearly burnt out soapstone lamp under which light Leifr had been working in the fast approaching gloom.

"Hardly any light indoors without firewood", Leifr deadpanned.

"I'm merely looking after you, son."

"As you have ever since you found me, you sentimental ox." A lopsided-grin curved the younger man's lips as he teased.

Agmundr let out a hearty belly laugh. "Can't help it, you remind me of my son! He would turn seventeen this year."

Leifr had never heard Agmundr mention his family or life before settling in Hrossey. Not because the older man had kept it a secret deliberately—the past was simply not a topic either of them really indulged in, not with Leifr having little to add to the conversation. "Where is he now?" he asked, intrigued.

The berserker crossed his burly arms and rested his back against the shed, gazing up at the dim stars that appeared one by one against the darkening, heavenly blanket. "In Hela's loving embrace, no doubt. He died from sickness at the age of nine. The same disease took his mother a month later."

Suddenly, Leifr wasn't sitting outdoors on a tree stump, but suspended in midair inside some sort of dim room with ethereal sickly light, the kind one could see in fog-veiled forests during a crisp autumn sunset. His body was completely immobile and his eyes stared emptily in whatever direction they happened to be pointing at. He barely comprehended when a pair of leather-clad feet entered his line of sight, followed by trousers and a belt from which hung an iron mirror. Leifr could just about see his murky reflection in it; a figure with pale skin covered in dark muck and plumage of a giant raven, limp arms caked in old blood and his face obscured behind a bird-skull mask. Abruptly, the invisible strings holding him in place were cut and he plummeted towards the rune-covered stone floor. But before Leifr could brace for impact, he caught a brief glimpse of a horrified feminine face and arms reaching out to catch him. His body dissolved and darkness swallowed him.

"I'm sorry to hear that", said a distant voice Leifr recognised as his own. What had just happened? A vision? An out-of-body experience?

"I've had plenty of time to mourn and move on." Agmundr shrugged. He was acting as if nothing out of ordinary had happened. Maybe to him nothing had. "However, the gods saw fit to give me another son." There was a humorous twinkle in the old berserker's eye. "And I'll make sure he won't catch his death out here if it's the last thing I'll do. It's bad enough Hela has one Agmundsson."

What was left of the vision-induced haziness was dispersed when a meaty hand clapped Leifr firmly on the back. "Now, while you go and make yourself useful with the firewood indoors", he made a point to stress the last word, "I will pay a visit to the shaman. And I expect to find you inside when I return." Agmundr left the younger man to ruminate over his words.

It wasn't until an hour later after Leifr was done piling the excess firewood inside the shed that the cold became too much for him to continue stalling. Grabbing the full firewood basket, Leifr made his way to the house and tried to push aside the nervous prickling sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Upon entering the house, he was greeted by a mouthwatering aroma of stewing broth and a quiet rustle of a shed stick pushing yarn. Next to the weaving loom was Senua hard at work and had been for quite some time, if the dying embers within the hearth were any indication. Putting his axe and the firewood basket aside, Leifr stretched to remove the many kinks and knots that had formed while he'd been working in the field. The soft grunt of relief and cracking of joints attracted a pair of blue eyes to him. Before he could catch her staring, the thrall had already bowed her head under the pretense of intently focusing on the unfinished fabric. Every once in a while she would risk sneaking a peek in his direction whenever thinking the Northman wasn't aware of it.

They had been participating in this charade ever since that day by the apple tree. She either dared not approach him or simply didn't know what to say, while Leifr didn't want to give the Pict a chance to worm her way into his heart and prove the old wolf's worries true. They carried on with their daily duties, only acknowledging each other openly when absolutely necessary. Despite his best efforts to ignore her, Leifr wasn't oblivious to the frustration and worry that the thrall emanated with each little gesture and word left unsaid. It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell if her behaviour was due to her fear of what would happen should he discard her, or because the girl genuinely cared about him.

In the end it didn't matter what their feelings for each other were; Leifr needed Senua. He had no other lead to his life before Hrossey. The fact that Senua was most likely trying to exploit his memory loss to escape was a non-issue. Leifr would simply have to be vigilant and keep her at an arm's length. Still, it was easier said than done, because when Leifr first took Senua to bed, she had kindled a flame within him that threatened to consume all reason as effectively as a wildfire would a birch forest. It was as if the girl had ensnared his mind, pulling his thoughts ceaselessly towards her and not granting any room for anything else. Staying out in the fields and avoiding the house only made him want her more. By the end of the day he'd always come back, defeated by desire and he would burn for her.

With a final roll of his shoulders, Leifr sat down at the table to dine and patiently waited for Senua to hobble to his side and serve the night meal. Her knee was healing nicely—enough to discard the crutch—although she couldn't quite yet move with the grace and finesse Leifr knew her to possess. He accepted the bowl of soup with a mumble, doing his best not to pay the girl any attention even as she remained next to him and kept fumbling with the ends of her apron dress. A heavy silence stretched between them.

Her cooking had vastly improved over the course of two weeks. Although it wasn't quite the quality Agmundr had come to expect from Norse women, to Leifr it was certainly more appetising than what the one-armed thrall had ever managed to make. For one, the vegetables and meat were properly cooked and not half-raw or partly burnt. Ossurr's woman had certainly taught her well. Senua would make a fine wife someday.

The thought gave him pause.

Senua? His wife? She was a menace to the community at worst and untrustworthy at best, at least according to Yngvarr. To think he had nearly granted the girl freedom from thralldom after one night together. Had it not been for old Agmundr, Leifr wouldn't be even aware of the spell the crafty Pict had cast over him. But now his eyes were open, which gave him enough clarity and control to fight against it. He refused to become another victim of hers like Yngvarr or Skorri had been, but at the same time Leifr couldn't back down from the challenge of taming her. His honour was on the line—at least, that's how Leifr justified Senua's continued presence under Agmundr's roof and in his bed.

From the corner of his eye, Leifr noticed Senua raise a hand as if to touch him, only to let it fall and return to fidgeting. The mere recollection of the Pict's fingertips brushing against his naked skin caused Leifr's heart to skip a beat and a wave of heat travel through his body that had nothing to do with the open hearth. He hated how much power she had over him.

Senua took a step closer and cleared her throat to catch his attention, not appearing to comprehend how absolute her hold on it already was. It wouldn't have mattered if Leifr had turned his back on her, because he simply couldn't block out her presence. She was like the Northern Star and he a sailor lost at sea. There was an invisible force that tugged at his very being—his soul—forcing his attention on her. No muted breath or change in her mood, no matter how small, went unnoticed by him.

There was little doubt he had been bewitched.

After a moment of contemplating the Northman's unresponsiveness, the thrall seemed to come to a decision as she took a steadying gulp of breath and shifted stance as if preparing to fight. Leifr tensed up, his hand edging towards the sword hanging from his belt. Would she finally make her move and reveal her true intentions?

"Leifr. Forgive me."

The brittle words were not at all what he had been expecting. "For what?"

"Displeasing you."

Either Senua was apologising to get back in his good graces or she was genuinely upset by the stark turn their budding relationship had taken. The girl certainly appeared remorseful with the hunched posture of someone who held the weight of the world on their shoulders, so different from her usual warrior's poise. Her small fists wringed restlessly as she waited for his acknowledgement.

Leifr set the wooden spoon down and quizzically peered up into those wide eyes, trying and failing to find any traces of deception. All he could see was the colour of glaciers during a sunrise and the reflection of dancing flames from a nearby hanging lamp. She was about as easy to read as runes carved on a shattered stone.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were being sincere."

Leifr suddenly realised that he had involuntarily lifted a thumb to her scarred mouth to absentmindedly caress the width of her bottom lip. It only dawned on the Northman when he felt Senua purse her lips against the finger in a half-kiss. He pulled back as if burnt, but Senua grabbed his hand and cradled it to her breast. "I mean it. I do not want to upset. Never you."

Her hands trembled. She had been weaving with barely any breaks since dawn and hadn't even stuck her nose outside the house for five days. The constant labour and inhaling of smoky air must've taken its toll on her. With a sigh, Leifr removed his hand from hers and stood up.

"You should get back to work." Despite the finality of his words, the gentle tone betrayed him.

Leaving Senua to clear the table, Leifr tossed several logs to the hearth before reclining on the sheepskin covers. He eyed the weaving loom and the stretched wool with mild interest and surmised she'd need another hour or so until she could begin cutting and sewing the tunic.

By the time Senua returned to weaving, the trembling of her hands had gotten worse to the point she had to redo rows more often than make new ones. As Leifr watched the thrall labour determinedly despite the futility, he felt a familiar pang in his chest. It was pity, the same emotion he felt when he had found her broken body bound to Yngvarr's bed. The same accursed pity that now spurred him to disregard all sensibleness in favour of sparing her from further suffering.

It was pointless to put off the inevitable. Agmundr was due home soon and wouldn't be pleased to find him sleeping separately from the thrall. Leifr wasn't one to admit defeat, so setting his apprehensions aside, he called for the Pict and patted the empty space next to him. A hopeful smile lit up the girl's entire face and she hurried to join him. The chemise and woolen dress were tossed next to the discarded pair of leather sandals in record time. Soon her naked body was pressed against Leifr's side and toned arms encased him in a tentative embrace.

He knew Agmundr had threatened to have Senua thrown back to the slave pens if she failed to satisfy his surrogate son's needs. But Leifr couldn't bring himself to touch her, not when he didn't know if any of this was even genuine and not a ploy to dull his wits to later use him as a means to escape. Had he been Yngvarr or Radugr or any of the other men starving for a woman's attention, he wouldn't have given a damn about any of that. Unfortunately, he wasn't like them. From the moment an iron collar had been placed around Senua's bruised neck, Leifr had developed a protective instinct of sorts towards her, one that grew fiercer and less rational with each day.

Slender fingertips ghosted over his breast, where a large scar he had no recollection of receiving began, and followed its trail up to his chin where it disappeared beneath a flaxen beard. Leifr cracked an eye open and saw Senua staring at the mark deep in thought with an air of wistfulness. She looked troubled, but gave a small smile once she noticed that the Northman was still awake, and proceeded to press her warm lips against his. It took every inch of his being for Leifr to resist the animalistic urge to grab the girl and have his way with her, drunk on desire as he was from her close proximity.

Senua broke the kiss, her brow creasing to a confused frown as she searched his face for signs of rejection. When the man gave nothing but a cool stare, her hand crept down below his waistline to coax out a reaction, but Leifr intercepted the pestering appendage in time. Seeing Senua pout like a child whose toy had been taken away, Leifr couldn't help but chuckle, which in turn caused the Pict's eyes to crinkle with mirth and mischief. This time, there was no mistaking the genuineness of her impish smile.

A stray clump of wool-like locks of hair had fallen to frame her face from the headscarf. Leifr allowed himself one small act of self-indulgence to brush it back in its place before pulling her down to nestle against him. He covered both of them with a sheepskin just as the creak of the door announced Agmundr's return.

"Sleep", he whispered against the shell of Senua's ear and felt her relax. They were lulled to sleep by the cracking and popping of the hearth and the muffled sounds of Agmundr enjoying his night meal.

Leifr wasn't surprised to wake up alone. A little disappointed, perhaps, but at the same time relieved. He could already feel the subdued flutter of longing in his core. Undoubtedly Agmundr had put Senua to work the moment the rooster crowed. Pulling his shoes on, Leifr left the empty house and found the old wolf next to the shed, tapping nails on what appeared to be a chest meant for storing fabrics and the like. If Leifr were to wager a guess, it was a commission from one of the merchants who often accompanied Ossurr to Hedeby.

"I sent the girl to pick some plums and pears. Been a while since we've enjoyed a decent porridge." There was a playful glint in the berserker's eye. "She's been cooped up long enough to grow roots of her own."

The old wolf must've been pleased with the thrall's progress to allow her to stretch her legs. "She's finished weaving, I take."

"Aye, and if she puts her mind to it, you won't have to show off that eagle of yours for much longer."

The fair-haired Northman shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to cover myself for the sake of your delicate senses."

Leifr's peculiar habit of decorating himself with woad had been a recurring topic of banter for as long as he had lived under Agmundr's roof. Said quirk coupled with his unusual preference in combining the fighting styles of both the Norse and the locals had earned Leifr the byname Afkarr, Strange. The man could vividly recall how Skorri had gaped like a landed trout when he beat the best warriors of the village while wielding a sword in the foreign manner of the painted savages. His victory had served both as an entry to the community as well as an effective warning to any troublemakers who might have sought to challenge or bully him.

Agmundr's snaggletoothed grin faded, concern furrowing his silver brows. "Something you'd like to talk about, lad? You haven't drawn out a single sigh or moan from the girl in days. I've seen more excitement from a dying man in a harlot's arms than when she kisses you."

Admitting the truth would be admitting weakness. The last thing Leifr needed was to be regarded as a liability—someone prime for exploitation, like a straggler in a battle formation. Despite holding the old wolf in the highest regard, he wasn't about to lay bare his troubled thoughts and feelings. This was something he had to figure out on his own.

Shrugging, Leifr rested his back against the shed and stared at the lush horizon to avoid Agmundr's scrutiny. "It's nothing to worry about. I've merely been tired and haven't had the energy to make her sing."

"If the girly isn't fulfilling your needs, it's best she's moved back to the pens for the nights. Otherwise she'll become arrogant and think she deserves the special treatment you've given her."

Agmundr was right, of course. Had the old wolf not been so permissive back in the day, Einarmr wouldn't have grown bold enough to steal. Nevertheless, Leifr wasn't willing to give the other men a means to get to her. Senua was safe during the day as long as she was accompanied by one of the wives, since nobody dared to risk the ire of their husbands. It was the nights that the Pict had to worry about, for it wasn't uncommon for a craving man to bribe Radugr to enter one of the pens unbeknownst to the owner of the thrall. Even if the offence came into light, nobody would bat an eye. All the owner could do was demand a fee from the culprit for spoiling their property. The memory of Senua, covered in dirt and blood both her own and enemies', silently clutching his hand through the cage bars as she wept, hung over Leifr like the cold dreary mist of the North sea.

"My needs are simple. She warms my bed and helps me sleep better." At least that much was true.

Leifr could tell Agmundr didn't buy into his feigned nonchalance in the slightest by the way the sharp predator-like eyes regarded him. "Indeed", he simply said and stroked his unkempt beard before returning to his work.

* * *

Senua felt the cobwebs of her mind clear out as she inhaled the sweet scent of ripe pears and dew-laden grass. Eiteag the weather sprite must've danced that night, because the air was pleasantly cool and damp from recent rain. On the eastern horizon goddess Grian began her slow climb up the skydome with the sun perched on her back. Golden rays revealed countless silvery beads shimmering among the grass and leaves of the orchard.

On one such morning, Dillion had shown her a cocoon of spider webs heavy with water droplets. The glistening gossamer had rivaled the beauty of the pearls of a travelling Caitian merchant, who claimed to often trade amber, furs and jewellery with the Norse settlers of the west coast of Pictland. From him Dillion had purchased the leather headpiece in secret and later given it to her as a parting gift.

" _See the silver wolf? It will help you and guide you back to me. Just like the druids teach us._ "

Scarred fingertips traveled from the triskelion stitching to the silver wolf's mane and blue stone eyes. Three times Senua had reunited with Dillion since, first his corpse in the village, then his soul in Helheim and lastly as Leifr. Thrice, as the triskelion predicted. There would be no fourth reunion. Senua pulled her headscarf back to cover the adorned leather. It was the only possession of value she had and she was afraid of it catching a greedy Northman's eye.

Setting down her basket, the Pict set to work.

The morning had begun as it always did, with Agmundr forcing her to leave the warmth of Leifr's bed, but this time Senua had put more effort than usual into ignoring the berserker's rude wake-up call. Although it had been just six nights, to Senua it felt like months had passed since she had woken up in the comforting embrace of her chosen vessel. They had shared a bed ever since she was taken as a slave, yet the recent nights had felt cold and lonely due to Leifr insisting on sleeping with his back towards her. The memory of having to pull the slumbering man's arms off her waist and neck brought a small smile to her lips. Somehow, Senua had managed to melt some of the icy barrier Leifr had raised around his heart. But as the Furies were keen to remind her, she still had a lot to do to earn the sullen Northman's trust and convince him to escape with her.

So engrossed in her fantasies, Senua failed to notice when she plucked an overripe pear and muttered a curse when the mucky juice of the fruit stained her hand and dress. As she stared at the mess, an idea began to form in her mind. If she couldn't convince Leifr through words, perhaps showing his true face would awaken his memories? The yellow-flowered plant was easy enough to find in these parts. Full of renewed vim and vigour, the Pict began to gather both pears and woad plants, wrapping the latter in a piece of linen before placing it next to the fruits in the woven basket.

"That you, Sessi?"

Twirling around, Senua saw the lanky figure of Vidhugsi traipsing towards her. He flashed her a boyish grin on recognition. "Hardly knew you without milk all over your apron. Where've you been?"

Gesturing towards Agmundr's house, she explained. "Making tunic. For Leifr."

"You should've told me! I still have the tunic Una made, you see. It's too baggy for me, since she figured I'll be growing to my full size in a year or two. You can have it."

"You need it later. I am in trouble when Agmundr finds truth."

Vidhugsi waved his hand in dismissal. "Hey, no problem, I'll just tell Una I lost the tunic she made me and ask for another one. Besides, blue's not really my colour."

The boy began to pace, the short tail of his braided top knot bouncing with each sharp turn. "Tullan has had barely any time to spend with me after you stopped helping her milk the cows. I didn't catch a single glimpse of her the day the wives and thralls were busy preparing food for Skorri's sjaund. What's worse, Hildingr has acted like he's got a massive stick up his arse ever since he got elected! The geezer won't let me near Tullan unless it's for business and I'm running out of believable excuses. Even during the feast he wouldn't let her leave his side."

He halted mid-stride, fell on his knees and took hold of Senua's juice-stained hand with both of his and begged. "So c'mon, Sessi, it'll benefit both of us! You'll save time working and I'll gain time with Tullan!"

The sooner she was able to present a finished tunic to Leifr, the sooner she could start rebuilding their uncertain relationship. It wouldn't hurt to have the youth indebted to her, either. Senua would need all the help she could get to escape. And who knows? Maybe Vidhugsi would follow Tuilelaith and leave the Norse settlement with them.

"Very well. You hide my tunic. I give Una's to Leifr. Then I can help."

Vidhugsi sprung back on his feet with the energy of a rabbit and shook Senua's hand with more enthusiasm than was entirely necessary. "Deal! You won't regret this!"

Senua hadn't finished prying her hand from the teenager's grip when his attention already turned to the basket by her feet. "You wouldn't happen to be making day meal out of those pears, would you?"

Lifting a brow at the sudden change in conversation, Senua nodded.

"Well, that's decided then! You go tell gramps and Leffe that they'll be receiving a guest." The boy turned tail before she could protest and ran downhill towards the plum orchard. With a disbelieving shake of her head, Senua picked her basket and followed.

Among the plum trees she found a woman clad in a red dress and white shawl. Senua recognised the ginger hair of Fiona, which was braided into a neat crown and held together by a chord of leather. Vidhugsi also noticed the woman and stopped next to her, stalling long enough to greet the Tuathan wife with a kiss on the cheek. So surprised by the uncharacteristic gesture, Fiona didn't even realise the plum in her hand was gone until Vidhugsi called "Thanks, Fiffi!" and fled, laughing all the while.

"That boy can be such a rascal", Fiona said when Senua reached her. Despite her chiding words, she didn't appear to be terribly upset over Vidhugsi's cheekiness. "I worry he is already raising boggarts out of his nephews behind my back. Can you imagine, just yesterday I caught Domhnall cutting tufts of hair from his little brother's head. On top of that, he'd somehow got his hands on Leifr Afkarr's dye and smeared it on both of their ears, claiming they were dark elves."

The mental image brought a smile to Senua's lips. Children would always be children, no matter what their background, it seemed. What confused her, however, was the child's obviously non-Norse name. "Domhnall?"

Fiona blinked, then flinched when she realised her error. "Oh, I meant Dufnall, my eldest son. I call him by his Tuathan name in private, which Sjurd wouldn't approve of, if he knew."

"I didn't realise you had children."

Fiona's usually melancholic eyes softened and a tender smile curved her lips as she thought of her offspring. "I have two sons with Sjurd, Domhnall and Fingal, or Finngardr as he's known to the men. Mallaidh and Kjarr have three sons and two daughters while Una and Tuilelaith are childless."

Senua tapped her chin in thought. She was certain she had seen more than seven children of various ages in the settlement. "What about the others?"

Fiona's smile froze and she turned away to resume plucking plums. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. "Most children were born from slaves who were shipped and sold off after they were no longer needed to take care of the young. Some are little more than servants to their fathers, while others are regarded as heirs to their inheritance. The older boys, like Vidhugsi, are younger brothers of the villagers who came with them across the sea."

"And Vidhugsi is your husband's brother?" It certainly explained why Fiona didn't seem too disturbed by the teenager's familiarity.

"Yes. He lives with us, as do Sjurd's other three sons."

Although Fiona had spent an evening at Agmundr's house teaching Senua how to preserve food for winter or how to manage stock levels, the two had never properly talked. Senua knew little of the slender woman and how she perceived the Northmen. She seemed to have accepted her new life gracefully, but so had Una, and Senua knew the wives were masters at keeping up appearances. They had to be. "Must be quite different in your home compared to Agmundr's and Una's."

"It can get noisy with five boys and two bigger boys romping about, but dealing with them isn't too different from shepherding a flock of sheep. I was daughter of a shepherd before I was captured, you see."

Senua blinked in surprise. Fiona's willowy frame and creamy skin could've better fit a noblewoman or someone who did light work indoors all day. "How long ago was that?"

"Eight years ago. I was only twelve back then. Father had taken me to Dundalk, a coastal market town, to sell quality wool when Hildingr's men attacked. They plundered everything of value, killed unarmed people for sport and captured most of the young and healthy before setting the houses ablaze."

"Wait, Hildingr's men? I thought Skorri was the leader."

Fiona shook her head. "Hildingr and his men met Skorri last year in Ulaid, Tuilelaith's home kingdom. When Hildingr and the men learnt of the power struggles in their homeland and of the new king, they decided not to return and accepted Skorri's offer to settle in Orkney where his men had founded this village. Hildingr gave up his title and had his men swear fealty to Skorri. His men still wear the silver arm rings from the time they served under Hildingr, that's how you recognise them."

If the Norse settlement was less than two years old, it was safe to assume a Pictish village had once stood in its place. Senua had seen no evidence of destroyed roundhouses, but the fruit-bearing plum, pear and apple orchards suggested as much. Before her capture, she had never ventured beyond the stone ring of Brodgar and wasn't even aware of any possible villages in the western Mainland.

"Where were you taken before you were brought here?" Senua asked.

"The Northmen had a hideout in one of the islands west of Pictland where I was taken to ensure I wouldn't run away. The others were taken to some place called Hedeby to be sold as slaves. Only me and another girl were left behind. Throughout the first year of my captivity, the men took turns to use us to satisfy their needs between raids. Thankfully my cycles began late and I didn't become heavy with a child." Fiona took a shuddery breath. Time had healed her wounds, but the invisible mental scars still remained. She quickly dried her tears with the end of her shawl. "My companion wasn't as fortunate. She took her own life, and consequently, the child's."

The Tuath glared at an overripe plum, plucked it and threw it as hard as she could. It smashed against a trunk of another plum tree, leaving behind a stain of squishy green pulp. It was hardly a rebellious act, but Senua realised Fiona could rarely afford to show her true feelings when she was always surrounded by children or Northmen. "Sjurd took a liking to me and bought me in order not to cause grievances, since all men had an equal claim on me. I was fourteen when I became pregnant with Domhnall. He finally married me after we moved here."

Senua wondered if all the wives had suffered equally from the Northmen's actions. Only Tuilelaith seemed to be completely carefree and not realise what was in store for her once her cycles began and Hildingr ceased treating her as a daughter or a pet. Senua hoped that she, Tuilelaith and the rest of the wives and slaves would be long gone from the village by then.

"What about you, Senua? Do you have family that you were forced to leave behind?"

Senua was certain Zynbel was still alive, but he was no better than the Northmen in her eyes. As far as she was concerned, she had been fatherless ever since the mad druid had burnt her mother alive. "I have no relatives left, but the village druid, Tharain, took me in and treated me as if I was his own daughter. There's also the smith, Veda, and his apprentice Baethan, who are like brothers to me."

It had been merely thirteen days since her capture, yet her heart ached from homesickness. Senua let her thoughts fly on a current of memories back to Tharain's village. She thought of Veda and his workshop at the edge of the village, right next to the stone wall and across from the crop fields. The half-deaf man preferred living further away from the others and mostly kept to himself. While he shared Dillion's short matted brown hair and brilliant blue eyes, his features were far more angular from the large down-pointing nose to his sharp cheekbones. He had a large heart like his cousin, but didn't seek company and make friends as easily as Dillion had. Senua wondered if Veda had managed to create another masterpiece in her absence. Did young Baethan still stay up late to keep company to the smith after his lessons? He was like a tuft of wool placed in water, eagerly sucking in information. He would make a great smith one day. The boy had just turned twelve when Senua had commissioned Liathplathadh.

Were they worried about her? Had Tharain sent someone to look for her?

"Do you miss them?" Fiona asked.

"Of course. You miss your family, too, don't you?"

"Everyday. I miss my old life. Sjurd treats me well and our children give me much joy, as does Vidhugsi when he's not busy causing trouble. But I didn't choose this life, I didn't want to marry Sjurd. I should be content, but I feel bereft."

While Senua could not admit it, she understood Fiona better than the Tuath would ever know. The only good thing to happen in her life had been taken from her, and to get a fraction of it back, she had sold her soul to the cruelest of deities. The two women lifted their full baskets and walked together uphill towards the longhouses.

"Fiona!" a clear tenor called.

Senua saw two men jogging towards them. One of them was wiry and tall, with straw-coloured facial hair that covered only the tip of his chin and hid his upper lip beneath a bushy moustache. Equally fair bangs fell over his blue eyes. The sides of his head were shaved like Vidhugsi's, but the hair on the back of his head was long and braided down to his shoulders. Senua recognised the jug-ears of Vidhugsi and knew this man had to be Sjurd. An unstrung bow and quiver were strapped to his back.

Sjurd's companion was shorter and stockier. His ash brown hair was tied in a high ponytail with several chords, similar to how Senua had worn hers prior to her capture. His hands appeared to be rough like Veda's, hinting at some sort of smith's profession. What Senua didn't have to second guess was the man's status as a seasoned warrior; the large scar on his left cheek and the two one-handed axes hanging from his belt affirmed as much. Both men had silver arm rings on their wrists, marking them as Hildingr's former underlings.

"Sjurd, Kjarr", Fiona greeted with a polite bow. "How can I serve you, husband?"

"We're heading out to hunt and test my new bow. You can expect game meat for the day meal. Make sure my little brother doesn't challenge the chief to a duel for Tullan's hand or some other nonsense in my absence, alright?" Sjurd placed a sweet kiss on his wife's cheek and chuckled when she suddenly found the tips of her shoes more interesting than the present company. Then he turned to Senua. "You're Leifr Afkarr's thrall. Sessi, was it?"

"Senua", Fiona corrected with a small smile. Sjurd seemed to have adopted Vidhugsi's nicknames, at least when it came to the thralls and wives with foreign names.

"Right, right. I didn't see you during Skorri's sjaund. All the other thralls were there serving us, including that one-armed cripple. Why weren't you?"

Senua shifted weight uneasily. Why had this Northman taken an interest in her? "Leifr said my leg too injured. Must heal. Must work at home."

"Sounds to me like he purposefully kept you out of sight and out of people's minds. I know several men who would've gladly seen you sacrificed on the pyre for Skorri."

Her heart skipped a beat. Could it be true? Even when Leifr had been acting cold and distant towards her, he had been taking care of her and making sure she was safe from those who wanted to harm her. "What of you? You one of them?"

Sjurd exchanged surprised looks with his silent companion. "Bold of you to ask. I was Hildingr's second-in-command for a decade before settling here, so I can't claim I was close with Skorri. It was unfortunate that he had to leave for Valhalla so soon, but I won't miss him. Hildingr has more experience as a leader and knows that everything, even raiding, has to be done in moderation to keep the morale up and crops yielding. Something Skorri would've eventually had to come to terms with if he had lived." The Northman's tone was light, but Senua sensed the danger lingering beneath the surface. "However, what you did to my cousin Yngvarr is not something I can forgive as easily."

Senua clenched her basket to keep her shaking hands still. How could a man like Yngvarr be related to someone as kind and unprejudiced as Vidhugsi? Sjurd seemed to notice her unease as his moustache twitched with what could've been a friendly smile, showing off a dimple on each cheek. "I know Vidhugsi's taken a liking to you, and I respect both Leifr Afkarr and Agmundr Ulfhedinn enough not to seek pointless revenge on my cousin's behalf. He's old enough to fight his own battles. Just know that he and some like-minded friends of his are out for your blood. I wouldn't go outside without an escort if I were you."

"Why tell me this?"

The fine hair on Senua's neck stood up when the Northman eyed her in a manner she couldn't decipher. "For the sport." Sjurd grinned, but there was no mischievous glee of Vidhugsi, only wicked anticipation of a predator. He walked past the women, giving his wife a playful pat on the backside. "Take care."

Kjarr, who had yet to say anything, offered a polite nod and a small yet genuine smile to both women before catching up with Sjurd.

"Well, I best go find that brother-in-law of mine." Fiona said and pulled Senua to a quick hug. "I truly hope you will adjust to your new life soon, Senua. I've not known Leifr Afkarr for long, but he appears to be a man with a good head on his shoulders. I'm sure everything will work out between the two of you." The Tuath let go and headed to the other side of the town where Sjurd's house was located.

Senua continued to trek towards Agmundr's home. What could Sjurd's cryptic words mean? What was his end goal? Whatever the case, it would be in her best interest to take the man's advice and stay away from the Northmen when moving about the village. Perhaps she could ask Leifr or Einarmr what they thought of it. She increased her pace and didn't slow down until reaching the door to Agmundr's house.

Just as she was about to enter, Senua heard a muffled voice of a man she didn't recognise. It couldn't be Vidhugsi, because the voice was too deep. It wasn't guttural enough to be Agmundr or soft enough to be Leifr. There was no sarcastic twang of Radugr or the melodious lilt of Yngvarr. Senua pressed her ear against the door.

"I hear you've got a tight leash on your woman, Leifr Afkarr."

Senua recognised the throaty chortle as Agmundr's. "The lad doesn't have to even lift a finger to get the girly to do his bidding. He's a natural when it comes to handling thralls."

"Your threats of separating her for the nights most likely helped", was Leifr's neutral answer.

"When given the right incentive, the Pictish barbarians can be surprisingly sensual. I'm guessing that's why you keep yours around, as well. Back when Una had to compete for my favour against several other women, she could be quite alluring." The foreign voice must've belonged to Ossurr.

"Is that why you brought that Vinds girl from Hedeby? To give your wife competition and satisfy your urges on the side?" Senua wasn't surprised when Leifr picked up on Ossurr's intentions immediately. Dillion had always been more perceptive than most.

"Indeed. With the threat of a thrall bearing me a son, Una will have to give herself to me willingly."

"And if she still refuses?"

Senua flinched when a fist thumped against wooden table, followed by a clatter of empty tankards and drinking horns. The man's voice was taut with barely contained anger. "Then I will renounce our marriage and sell her to the worst brothel I can find. Either she will fulfill her duty as my wife and grant me a son or she will spend the rest of her life with her legs spread open. I won't be made a fool!"

A long stretch of silence followed, eventually broken by Leifr's mellow tenor. "A little harsh, don't you think?"

"I'm at my wits' end. I've tried to be patient and given her more than enough time to move on from the past. Ever since Skorri recruited me, I've bedded countless women from different corners of the world, both thralls and lovers, but only Una ever left me with such a strong impression. She never shied away from the mens' leering and held herself with dignity, despite being every bit as dirty and roughened up as all the other captured swamp rats."

Ossurr let out a short and bitter laugh. "She didn't throw herself at me like the other concubines. Rather, she mended my clothes to win my affections. It was then that I realised she was special."

Agmundr spoke. "And still you sold her brothers?"

There was a muffled sigh. "I wanted to cut all of her ties and keep her to myself. But in the end, doing what I did wasn't worth it. The gods drank deep of her parents' blood and blessed my travels, and my exploits made me rich, but now I am denied the one thing I want—her love."

Senua recognised the hint of humour in the old berserker's tone. "That woman is made of ice. You'd sooner find a willing lover from a monastery. Frankly, I'm surprised you've not paid a visit to the pens yet. The thralls might not be as pleasing to look at, but Radugr's fee would hardly leave a dent in your coin pouch."

"You underestimate my restraint."

"Oh, don't feed me that drivel. I've lived and fought beside you long enough to know better than that, Ossurr Bradthurs."

Ossurr snorted. "Fine. I've drugged her mead whenever my passions have taken hold of me. It's a poor substitute, but it has kept me appeased."

The door suddenly opened inwards, causing Senua to lose her balance. She collapsed against Agmundr's bare chest and felt the hard edges of his silver pendant press against her mouth. Quickly, she stepped back and hugged the basket of fruit to her chest defensively.

Agmundr's bushy brows rose pointedly. "Thought you could delay work by eavesdropping, eh, girly?"

Senua bowed her head, her grip on the basket tightening under the older man's condescending glare. "No, master."

"Then stop dawdling and get to work! You'll be lucky to eat today at all." Agmundr grabbed Senua by the end of her headscarf, hair and all, and yanked, causing her to stumble inside. Had it not been for Leifr's quick reflexes, she would've most likely acquainted her face with the floor. Once she had regained her balance, Leifr released his hold and abandoned Senua to face their guest.

"So, this is the Pict Yngvarr won't stop bitching about."

It was at that moment Senua understood why Una was so afraid of the man.

Ossurr was huge. He towered over all of the Northmen of the settlement and was a head taller than Leifr, who in turn, was taller than all the men of her people. He wore an orange tunic that had elegant golden hued embroidery on the neck and cuffs, courtesy of Una's handicraft, no doubt. Over the tunic he wore a pristine white cloak fastened by a detailed pin made of gold. From his neck hung a silver hammer of Thor as well as a bronze cross, most likely to gain access to trade with the Christians who refused to have any dealings with pagans. A golden neck torc decorated his forearm due to being too small to fit the man's thick neck. Like Leifr, he wore legwraps over his calves. His beard was braided to a single tight braid. However, what caught Senua's eye was the unusual hairstyle that left the back of his neck bare, while dirty blond bangs fell over his piercing eyes.

His grim gaze fixed on hers. "She's puny like my wife, but I can see there's strength in her body. Still, it's difficult to believe she bested Skorri."

Agmundr stroked his beard. "Aye. She's easy to underestimate, which makes her dangerous. What she lacks in strength and stature, she makes up for with perseverance."

Senua kept her head bowed and hurried past the men to join Einarmr by the hearth. Since Einarmr could manage making flatbread even with his handicap, Senua took over the main dish. She began by adding water and oats to the cooking pot. While it heated, the Pict retrieved a wooden chopping board and a matron's knife, and began to cut fruit. The other wives of the settlement kept their matron's knives on their persons at all times, but Agmundr had prohibited Senua from taking hers outside the house for obvious reasons.

Ossurr moved next to Senua, close enough to invade her personal space. "Tell me, why is it that Una spends so much time teaching you when she taught the basics to the other wives in less than half the time?"

Senua spared a timid glance up in the giant's narrowed eyes before turning back to cutting pears. Perhaps, if she feigned ignorance, she'd be left alone. "Yes, master."

Ossurr snorted and leant closer to study the Pict's closed expression. "Doesn't speak much, does she?"

"She hasn't yet learnt the language", Leifr cut in. "She understands basic commands, but you won't be able to hold an intelligent conversation with her."

"One could say that about any thrall", Ossurr said and retreated back to his seat.

Senua cast a grateful look to Leifr who acknowledged it with a subtle nod. The Northmen moved outside to discuss preparations for the harvest and how many slaves they would need, leaving Senua alone with Einarmr to prepare the day meal. She didn't have to wait long for the Furies' bickering to fill the silence.

 _She is running out of time._

 _If the Northmen need more slaves, that means she has to return now and warn her people!_

 _She can't do it now! Someone would follow or capture her. She can't outrun anyone, not yet._

 _She should wait for nightfall, she'd have a greater chance of escaping, then._

 _Stealth is her only option._

"Einarmr, is there a way to avoid the night watchmen?"

The Tuath visibly flinched. "Whatever it is that you're plotting, forget about it. You'll get yourself killed—and me!"

"So, is there?" Senua paid no mind to the redhead's sour look and emptied the minced pears and plums and crushed hazelnuts into the pot.

"None of the slaves have ever escaped", Einarmr grumbled and handed her a jar of honey.

Senua scooped up a spoonful of it and tapped the cutlery heavy-handedly to loosen the viscous substance into the gruel, not bothering to mask her annoyance with the man's reluctance. "That's because they're always under lock and key during the night. But I'm not, I have a chance to escape and get help from my village."

"There's only one way out and that's through the towngate, which, might I remind you, is closed after sunset."

"So, I need to kill the guards and find the key."

The chain of the Tuath's iron collar clanked from the swift twist of his head. "What you need is to regain your senses! You'd never even make it past the front door. Master Agmundr sleeps lighter than a dog. Believe me, this didn't happen from lack of caution." Einarmr gestured at the stump of his arm. "He might go easy on you because Leifr Afkarr likes screwing you at night, but if you break the rules, it's you his axe will be dismembering next."

A tense silence fell over the two slaves. Einarmr huffed and took out the elevated dough from beneath a linen cloth. With his good hand, he rolled out the dough and placed the raw flatbread on a peel before sliding it into an oven with some difficulty. In the meantime Senua busied herself with stirring the pot until the mush began to resemble porridge. She let it simmer and went to help Einarmr take out the cooked bread. Once all the round loaves were cooling on the table, Senua faced the sunken-eyed Tuath.

"Don't you want to be free?"

His tone dripped with sarcasm. "Yes, and grow my arm back and become the next king of Ulaid. But we can't have everything we want, now can we."

"What would you lose if I failed? Agmundr can't fault you for my escape attempt when you're in a cage."

Einarmr stuck a bony finger in the cooking pot, earning a disapproving look from Senua, which he deliberately ignored in favour of licking the sweet-tasting slop. "I would lose my additional portions of food and I would have to do all the chores alone with one hand. Furthermore, master Agmundr has been exceptionally gracious ever since Leifr Afkarr took a liking to you. He barely vents his anger on me anymore." He wagged his finger at Senua like a parent scolding their child. "Who's to say you won't run off and abandon me? You'd be a fool not to, and I'd be a fool to let you leave when things are finally agreeable."

 _This is going nowhere. Einarmr won't risk losing what little benefits he has gained to help her._

 _What can she do?_

 _Leifr could help her escape! With the woad, she can show him Dillion's face and make him remember!_

 _What then? Even if he remembers, Leifr is still part of him. He won't turn on his only family._

 _If Leifr loves Senua as much as Dillion did, he will._

A knock on the door interrupted her internal squabble.

"Enter", Senua softly called in Norse.

Vidhugsi poked his head in and inhaled the smell of fresh bread and cooking fruit and oats in an exaggerated manner. "Mm, smells like I'm just in time."

Einarmr cast a confused look between the Norse youth and the Pict, but said nothing.

Senua hurried to Vidhugsi's side. "Tunic?"

The fair-haired boy grinned and pulled out a bundle of cloth from the folds of his yellow cloak. "As promised!"

Senua was relieved to see it was passably similar in colour as the wool stretched across the weaving loom. There was no time to go through the dye process again if she wished to give the tunic today. It had taken two days of simmering for the woad to transfer to the spun yarn. The two Northmen had never seen the fabric in daylight and most likely didn't pay it much attention while Senua weaved it. They wouldn't be able to tell Una's tunic was not made of the same fabric as the one she had woven.

Senua removed the wool from the loom and traded it for the tunic. Once Vidhugsi was placated with a bowl of porridge and loaf of flatbread—much to Einarmr's chagrin—Senua took the garment and cut the thread connecting the sleeve to the armhole.

"Hold on! What are you doing, Sessi?" Vidhugsi asked through a mouthful of bread.

"Must seem I made it. I finish it while they eat."

The boy's dimples showed when he beamed in mischievous delight. "Good call."

* * *

Leifr cast a questioning look at Agmundr before returning his attention on the garment folded across the Pict girl's arms as if it was an offering made for a jarl.

"Well, well", Agmundr drawled. "Seems like someone's been busy."

Leifr accepted the tunic and unfolded it. For the most part the needlework was too precise to be made by a first-timer like Senua. However, the old wolf didn't appear too interested in inspecting the details, so Leifr didn't comment on it and put the tunic on. It fit, if only barely. It was clearly meant for a man with a leaner build.

"You could've made it a little less form-fitting, girly. But it's decent and serves its purpose." It was as close to a compliment as one could expect from the old berserker. Agmundr turned to address Leifr. "Her cooking has improved and she can now outfit you and your children. After you've rid her off her savagery, she might make a decent wife, eventually."

Agmundr took a bowl and filled it with what little was left of the day meal in the cooking pot and beckoned Senua over. Puzzled, the girl moved next to him and did a little curtsey. "Yes, master?"

"Dig in. You've earned it." The berserker grinned his snaggletoothed grin and placed the bowl in her hands. "Old Agmundr always keeps his word."

Senua glanced at Einarmr's crestfallen face before hesitantly eating the three mouthfuls of porridge. Neither of them had had the time to set a portion aside for the Tuath.

The old wolf observed the thralls' exchange. "You two can thank Vidhugsi Einradi for the lack of food, I presume."

The boy in question held his hands in appeasement. "Now, gramps, I'm just collecting my reward for that time I made those beads for your wife's burial goods."

"You've 'collected your reward' a dozen times by now, even though I paid you long time ago."

Vidhugsi waved his hand as if to brush the matter aside. "Details, details. Besides, you can consider this an investment for when you will eventually pass away and need something to impress the other Einherjar with. Aside from your awe-inspiring feats in battle, of course."

Agmundr snorted. "Lad, I have no use for trinkets in life, I doubt I'll need them in the afterlife, either. Furthermore, I've got Leifr to make sure my corpse is taken care of, so you can't claim these pantry raids are investments for funeral arrangements."

Leifr shook his head and left the youth and the elder to their bantering. He intended to find and invite Radugr for some fishing to settle the stomach before returning to labour at the field. As soon as the door closed behind him, it opened and closed again. Turning around, he saw Senua, looking a little nervous and more wide-eyed than usual.

"What is it?"

She bit her lip and twisted the ends of her headscarf. "Before sun sets. Meet me at the meadow. Outside wall."

His brows furrowed in confusion. "What for?"

"Something I want to show. Important to me. Please come?"

Senua never asked anything from Leifr, not even when some of his kinsmen had given her and Einarmr a hard time. Her sudden request must have meant something in her attitude had changed. Either she wanted to open up to him about something or to lure him outside the safety of the town walls and kill him when his guard was down. If she dared to try the latter, he would have to put an end to their little affair, permanently.

"Fine. I'll be there."

* * *

"What are you doing?" Einarmr peered over Senua's shoulder.

Senua ceased her grinding, set the blue-hued pestle aside and scraped the finished powder from the mortar into a small clay container. "Making woad dye."

"For Leifr Afkarr, right?"

"Yes." She did not further elaborate. The Tuath would definitely try to stop her if he knew her plan. Then again, he probably wouldn't believe her even if she admitted the truth. It wasn't exactly a common occurrence that a Northman was resurrected, let alone with a Pictish warrior's soul.

Einarmr's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Somehow I doubt you're merely encouraging his habit. You're up to something."

Senua soaked a linen cloth in water and began to clean the grinding equipment. "What if I'm merely trying to bond over a common practice?"

"Oh yes, I can see you two painting Serch Bythols on each other's breasts." Mockingly, he placed his hand over his heart and fluttered blond eyelashes in imitation of a lovelorn maiden. His voice was high-pitched as he crooned. "Oh, master Leifr, let me prove my worth."

Irritated, Senua threw the dirty dish cloth in the Tuath's face. "I bet that's exactly what you would do in my shoes."

Einarmr dropped the offending item into the washing basin and wiped his stained hand on Senua's dress, glaring at the Pict all the while. "If I were a woman, I'd be his wife by now, unlike you. You're just a collarless slave." He tossed the chain of his collar over his shoulder as if it was a cape.

" _He's just resentful he missed his meal_ ", Senua reasoned to herself and tried to keep her anger in check. The Tuath was merely venting to the only person he could. Still, she didn't appreciate being someone's emotional scapegoat, especially when she had suffered such treatment from Zynbel for most of her life.

Putting on a falsely sunny smile, Senua changed the topic. "So, what is today's first Norse lesson?"

"Lesson number one: no food, no lesson", Einarmr griped.

Her smile fell. "I couldn't predict Vidhugsi would eat so much! Or that Agmundr would make me eat the leftovers."

"Lesson number two: learn to anticipate." He flicked the dyed water, sending blue droplets in Senua's direction.

Exasperated, she removed the basin from the Tuath's reach. "You're being impossible! And immature!"

"No, I'm giving you life lessons. If you scratch my back, I scratch yours. Just because we're both slaves under the same roof, doesn't mean I have to agree with every harebrained idea that goes through that empty head of yours."

Oh, he had no idea what Senua would give to have an empty head, free from the Furies' constant commentary and belittling.

Pocketing the dye container in her belt pouch, Senua pushed past Einarmr. "Well then, if there's no further lessons, I trust you won't disapprove if I leave you to your work and go paint Serch Bythols on my lover's breast."

She slammed the door in his face and savoured the momentary sense of satisfaction.

The sun hung low in the sky. Not wanting to make Leifr wait, Senua emptied the washing basin and picked up a woven basket. She would need an excuse to get past the guards. In spite of her eagerness, she remembered Sjurd's warning and decided to take detours through the most deserted paths to avoid attracting unnecessary attention. As she passed longhouses and the meadery, she saw a group of men blocking her way. One of them spotted her and elbowed his mates.

"Hey, Pict bitch! Where do you think you're going?"

Senua could recognise the beaded locks and velvety voice from anywhere—Yngvarr. Quickening her limping gait, she turned around and hurried to the town center, hoping to lose the men in the maze of workshops.

Lively music played on foreign instruments reached her ears. The marketplace was packed with people in colourful clothes. Food was fried, grease sizzled, smoke wafted, craftsmen showed their skills, sweet and savoury goods were sold and eaten, mead and foreign drinks flowed. The multitude of colours and noise exceeded Senua's expectations; she would not find a better place to hide from her pursuers. Merchants from the various colonies of the Northmen, as far as Novgorod, occupied the many stalls of the marketplace. The news of the previous chief's death and the sjaund celebrations must have brought them across the sea. Senua even spotted a merchant from Pictland and another two from Tuathan kingdoms. Despite the bad blood between the Celts and the Northmen, trading, it seemed, was still very much practised. With the celebrations coming to an end, most merchants were packing their things and getting ready for the voyage back home or to the next colony.

Senua noticed Hildingr in his impressive bearskin cloak and gaudy red tunic by one of the stalls, haggling prices with a merchant. Next to him was little Tuilelaith from whose turtle brooches hung as many as five strings of glass beads, as well as a Thor's hammer and bear fangs. From her belt hung keys to Hildingr's house and the mead hall. On her wrists were silver bracelets that Hildingr must've bought recently from one of the Tuathan merchants. It seemed the new chief cut no costs to show off his wealth and pamper his wife.

Glancing behind her, Senua saw nothing but the top of the sand-coloured head of her stalker, the rest of him and his companions hidden behind a group of merrymakers. The poet couldn't see her, but he was advancing in her general direction. Thinking quickly, Senua dashed to the nearest stall and pushed in front of men inspecting the wares. She picked one of the silver mirrors, pretending to examine it. From the looking glass, she saw Yngvarr and his mates scour the marketplace for her until eventually giving up and moving on to search elsewhere.

"Beauty, ain't it?"

Startled, Senua offered the Tuathan merchant a strained smile, replaced the mirror on the table and left.

She sidestepped a small group of children that had gathered to play tug-of-war, but stopped to watch when she noticed two boys with blue eartips. Domhnall and Fingal. Seeing the boys up close, it was easy to tell they were sons of Fiona and Sjurd. Domhnall had his father's light hair and build, as well as the easily recognisable tiny nose and plump lips of his mother. He could've passed for a six-year-old Vidhugsi. Fingal, on the other hand, looked little like his father and uncle, taking mostly after his mother in both temper and appearance. Only the persisting family trait of jug-ears proved his lineage to Sjurd.

As she stood there and watched the children play, Senua remembered the day of her capture and how a startled boy with straw-coloured hair that fell over blue eyes had tried to hide from her. It had been Domhnall who had alerted the Norse warriors to her presence in the forest. Had Senua killed him that day, much could've been different.

Domhnall whooped excitedly and clasped Fingal's hand in glee as they celebrated their victory over the other team. Witnessing such happy children born of a Celtic and Norse union, Senua couldn't help but wonder if a peaceful coexistence between the two peoples was possible. Druth had thought he could broker peace or at the very least stay the invaders' hand from slaughter, but his will had crumbled under torture. Senua, on the other hand, had been granted a unique means to bridge the gap between the Norse and Celts through Leifr. Was she obligated to attempt what Druth had failed to do? Was it wrong to want to leave the island to its fate and run off with her beloved, to find a corner in the world where they could live their days in peace? Did they not deserve peace and happiness after so much suffering? The Furies murmured, but gave her no clear answer.

The rest of the way to the towngate was fortunately uneventful. Most settlers were busy trading, drinking, gambling, wrestling and revelling, while merchants and other foreigners paid her no mind without an iron collar to identify her as a slave.

When she reached the gate, a guard moved to block her passage, spear in hand. "Halt. Where are you off to?"

Senua showed him the woven basket. "Mushrooms."

The gatekeepers exchanged looks, but let her pass. A warrior was sent to follow her at a distance, crossbow at the ready, to make sure she wouldn't try to run away. Senua found Leifr already waiting for her on top of a hill overlooking the sea. Once the stalking crossbowman had made sure she was kept an eye on, he put his weapon away and returned to his post. Leifr raised a brow in question upon noticing the basket in Senua's hand, which she promptly put away.

Hela had claimed Dillion's vessel wouldn't have any memories, but the Northman had proved several times already that he wasn't a mere blank slate with a mismatched body and soul. Even though Senua had been too lost in her mental turmoil at the time, she was certain Leifr had comforted her in Pictish with Dillion's words during Skorri's funeral. The continuous glimpses of her lover's presence through Leifr's words, mannerisms and actions gave Senua hope for an overdue reunion. All she wanted was for the man before her to remember their shared history and love for one another.

"Why did you invite me here?"

Storm-blue eyes regarded her coolly. There was no mistaking the lingering distrust when the man placed a hand to rest over the pommel of his longsword as a wordless warning. He must've known they were far enough from the village for no-one to hear any potential sounds of struggle. Her knee was still healing and she was unarmed, but it wasn't mere happenstance that she was still alive while the three scouts and the former leader of the Northmen were not. Senua couldn't really fault Leifr for keeping his distance, although she was certain the man could overpower her just as easily as during their first encounter.

"You paint." Senua pointed at the vague shape of the eagle's head on his throat and took out the clay container from her belt pouch. "I made dye. May I?"

His brows knitted to a suspicious frown. "Why? And why take me all the way here to do it?"

"Tradition to paint beloved." The lie rolled off her tongue easily. "It is private. Intimate. Agmundr must not see."

"You don't want the old wolf to see me getting poisoned, you mean. Do you take me for a fool?"

Sighing, Senua dabbed a finger in the blue pigment and smeared it on her chin and bottom lip. "See? Harmless."

The stubborn man refused to budge. "Why should I honour your traditions? You're just a thrall. It is you who must wear our clothes and partake in our rituals. I have no reason to care about barbarian customs."

His words were harsh, but Senua immediately took notice of what was left unsaid. Leifr hadn't denied their relationship or questioned her love for him. Instead, he tried to downplay both by bringing up her status as a slave. Encouraged by this realisation, the Pict took a step forward and was pleased when the Northman did not react aggressively or even defensively. Nonetheless, his hand remained on the pommel and he stood still as a night watchman. Cautiously, as if dealing with a wounded beast, Senua closed the gap between them and slowly lifted both hands to touch the blue streaks trailing down from the corners of his eyes.

"You paint like us."

His voice lowered to a husky murmur. "What of it?"

"You wear our markings. I wear your clothes", she reasoned. "Let me paint you. Please."

Whatever tension was left in Leifr's body faded away beneath her gentle caresses. Once his frosty exterior melted, Senua dared to breathe a sigh of relief, only to feel her heart leap in panic when the tall man suddenly moved to strike. Instead of cutting her open with a sword, Leifr grabbed her hands and lifted them to his lips, placing a soft kiss on each knuckle.

"How do I know you're not up to any mischief?"

Her heart still racing from the fright, Senua replied with a trembling voice. "Same way I not know to trust you."

His stare was unnerving, similar to that of a hen harrier scrutinising its prey, but she did not blink or back down. Finally, after what felt like hours to Senua, Leifr released her hands, accompanied by a long renouncing sigh.

"Fine."

The sullen man ran his fingers through flaxen hair, absentmindedly ruffling and making a mess of the small braids that held the pesky tresses out of his eyes. Senua could recognise the frustrated gesture from anywhere—it was what Dillion did whenever something displeased him. His mop of dark brown hair had been unruly as a raven's nest by the time his father died from the plague.

Leifr sat down among the tall grass, crossed his legs and waited impatiently for the Pict to join him. Kneeling down across from him, Senua placed a hand on his knee for support and bit back a titter when the man's scarred hands settled on her hips. After pushing aside the strands of hair that had fallen from his braids, she began to paint.

With each new streak of blue along the Northman's features, Senua felt the weight in her heart grow heavier. His face was not Dillion's, but there was something that was unmistakably him. Perhaps it was the barely visible crease on his forehead from frowning so much. Perhaps the way his eyes would crinkle whenever he secretly found something amusing, even when his mouth refused to follow suit. Or perhaps something else entirely, Senua couldn't tell.

"This means a lot to you." It was more of a statement than a question.

"I must focus", she mumbled evasively and dabbed woad beneath his eye. In truth, Senua was afraid Leifr would see through her lies.

 _She was never good at lying. Zynbel could always tell._

 _This is the only way she can make Leifr remember. He needs to see his real face._

Leifr chuckled and squeezed her hip affectionately. "Thought as much."

Once done, she held out Druth's iron mirror for him. Senua dared not say a word in fear of being misunderstood like the last time she had attempted to jog his memory. What she wasn't prepared for was Leifr abruptly grabbing the mirror with both hands and standing up, knocking the Pict on her backside in the process.

"I've seen this before."

Could it be? Was he finally remembering?

Rising on her tiptoes, Senua peered over his shoulder at their distorted reflection. "Where?"

Something in his posture changed the longer he kept staring at the unfamiliar paintwork. Dropping the mirror, Leifr whipped around and grasped Senua by the upper arms. "I've had enough of your mind games! Do you really think me so naïve that I would not realise what you're trying to accomplish?"

Fear gnawed at her insides when the grip on her arms grew tight enough to leave bruises. Had she gone too far? The Furies' distressed wailing threatened to overwhelm her. "Please remember me!" she cried over the internal clamour. "You hurt me. I see your face. Then I love you. Do you not think it odd?"

Leifr's expression was unreadable. "What are you saying?"

Never before had they openly addressed the strange nature of their sudden romance. It was possible Leifr had always suspected that Senua intended to use his kindness for her own gain. After all, was that not exactly what the other wives of the settlement did? A slave like her could only pretend and please her master in hopes of receiving freedom through matrimony. Men, like those of the settlement, were eager to believe in such fantasies and push logic aside for the sake of imagined affection.

"I searched for you." She blinked in vain to keep the tears from falling and felt his clutch on her loosen. "You died. Hela brought you back."

Leifr froze. The linen of her sleeves dampened with cold sweat from where clammy hands held her. In spite of her blurred vision, Senua could see how the man's face drained from colour and how the whites of his widened eyes moved frantically without comprehending or seeing anything.

"Leifr?" she questioned hesitantly.

Snapping out of his brief stupor, Leifr shook his head to regain clarity and released her. "Just leave me be."

He ran back to the village, knocking over the clay container in the process and staining the grass in hues of blue. Senua picked the jar up. The last crumbs of the paste poured out and scattered into the winds, but it might as well have been her hope.

* * *

Senua called after him, but Leifr could not hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears. He barely noticed when the crossbowman from earlier ran past him to retrieve the Pict.

For a brief moment the ground beneath them had seemed to shift. Instead of tall grass, he saw stone floor covered in runes. The blue skies had taken a sickly sallow colour. The wool and linen of Senua's clothing were replaced by worn leather and tartan. Dirt and blood, as well as paint that had been mostly washed out, spread across her face. Pulsing black substance snaked up her dominant arm all the way to the neck. As quickly as the vision had appeared, it was gone.

What was happening to him? Was the Pict's magic slowly turning him mad? Maybe there was something poisonous in the woad, something that the girl was immune to. He had to get rid of the accursed face paint.

The moment Leifr reached the village, he ordered the nearest thrall to fetch him water. He went to wait by the bathhouse grounds, but couldn't stay still and began to pace to ease the burning sensation in his legs.

"That's a new look. Got bored of the old one?"

"Planning on infiltrating a Pict village, Leifr?"

"Sjurd. Kjarr", Leifr acknowledged the pair. "What do you want?"

Sjurd leant against the bathhouse and fiddled with his yew bow. "There's rumours circling that we'll be heading out soon. Know anything about that?"

"No."

The scrawny child thrall returned, the chain of his iron collar rattling merrily to the rhythm of his quick steps. There was something comical about how the small boy carried the basin on top of his head and scurried as fast as he could without spilling the lakewater.

Leaning over the basin, Leifr studied his rippling reflection in distaste. His usual blue streaks were invisible under the new markings. Three uneven streaks stretched from the left side of his hairline down to his right cheek, while a single, wide streak broke the pattern by following the curve of his cheekbone from his left eye down to his chin. He splashed water on his face and scrubbed the skin until both his hands and facial hair were equally blue.

"You must know something. I heard from Vidhugsi that you and Radugr talked about searching for the village of Skorri's killer."

"That's Hildingr's decision to make. Agmundr and Ossurr have already taken the lack of thralls to his attention."

"That's too bad. We were ready and raring to go when we saw you hurtle." Sjurd let go of the stretched string of his bow which made a soft twang on release. "I'm still disappointed I didn't get to target practise with the girl. Would've been interesting to see if hunting a Pict makes for a better sport than a wild animal."

Leifr ignored the spike of anger at the thought of Senua getting hurt and continued to scrub his face until no more pigment stained his skin and hair. He finished by blowing his nose in the water and spitting.

"You should make the girl talk", Kjarr suggested. "Find out where the village is located, so we can send scouts to investigate what we're up against."

"For that we need new scouts. Senua killed our best ones", Leifr pointed out.

Sjurd waved the statement off like it was an annoying fly. "A non-issue. I will volunteer myself immediately, since I'm the most light-footed. Kjarr never hears me when I sneak into his house and steal his wife's honey nut cakes."

"Maybe, but I certainly hear the sound of you getting knocked on your arse afterwards."

Leifr didn't doubt Kjarr's words. His wife, Mallaidh, was of a taller breed than the other wives, easily rivaling if not beating most Norse women. Unlike Sjurd's wife Fiona, who was willowy and frail, Mallaidh was robust and didn't hesitate using the back of her hand when men misbehaved in her home. Kjarr rarely had to lift a finger in her defence.

Sjurd shrugged. "Never said I bothered with stealth after I got my hands on the cakes."

Kjarr turned to Leifr. "So, how about it? Think you can glean anything out of her?"

"She can barely talk, let alone hold a conversation." It was a half-truth, but Leifr wasn't willing to risk the other men torturing Senua for information, despite having demanded that she be left alone. "We'd sooner learn the location of the village by eavesdropping on the thralls when they think they're alone."

Sjurd scoffed. "And how would we do that? None of us speak their language!"

Leifr accepted a linen cloth from the child thrall and wiped his face before eyeing his paintless reflection. He wasn't a Pict, so why did it feel like he was about to betray his people? "I do."

The two men exchanged skeptical looks.

"Since when?"

"Since I first heard Senua speak her language. I can't explain the how or why. I just do."

Kjarr stroked his ash brown mane. "Does she know you can understand her?"

"No."

"Then, you'll need to find a way to give the Pict reason to mention her village. Otherwise you'll be eavesdropping till Ragnarök."

"I have a plan." Whenever Senua tried to use her magic on Leifr, her goal had been to make him believe he was one of her people. There was a high possibility that she might take him to the village, if Leifr pretended to be completely under her influence. "I will let you know once I find anything worth our time."

Sjurd clapped Leifr on the back. "Get to it, then. We'll inform Hildingr and make the necessary preparations in the meantime."

By the time Leifr began to head back, night had fallen and engulfed the remains of lingering daylight. Only the bleak glow of a crescent moon, hidden behind a curtain of tattered clouds, lit his path through the deserted town square. The merchants had long since packed their bags and left on their longships for the next colony or found a place to stay overnight within the village.

Once reaching home, Leifr found Agmundr sitting next to the hearth, carving squares of a grid on an unfinished game board. In the far end of the longhouse, which was reserved for livestock and thralls during wintertime, were the Pict and Tuath eating their meager daily meal in silence. Something was different about them, Leifr could immediately tell. The first thing he noticed was that the thralls weren't huddled together, side by side, as the Northman had come to expect during the past two weeks. Senua sat a little further away at an angle that enabled her to keep an eye on both the thrall and the berserker, rather than just the latter. Meanwhile, Einarmr was busy glowering at the contents of his plate.

The old wolf looked up from his work and grinned. "Did Radugr knock you off the boat?"

Leifr raised a brow in question. "What do you mean?"

"It's not washing day, yet there's no blue on your face."

Leifr rolled his eyes and sat down at the table. "Sjurd's kids stole my supply. Didn't want to risk upsetting them by taking it back." When had telling white lies and half-truths become a second nature to him?

"You've become a real softie, you know that."

"Just with kids."

"And a certain Pict."

"Then it's a good thing I intend on having kids with her someday", Leifr quipped. He saw Senua look up from her food in surprise, the tips of her ears reddening when their eyes met.

"In anycase, it might be for the best that you stopped wearing the paint altogether. There's always a chance that you could be mistaken for a bog rat in the chaos whenever we encounter hostile locals."

Leifr grunted in acknowledgement and watched the Pict to hobble over and serve him the night meal—lamb and chanterelle soup. He didn't miss how Senua's gaze lingered on his paintless cheeks and wondered why she looked so sad. Disappointment, frustration, anger and dismay he could understand, but not sadness. Her attempts to manipulate him had failed, so why did the Pict act like Leifr had stomped on her feelings rather than warded off a spell? Could it be that the vision he experienced had nothing to do with her? Thinking back on it, Leifr had witnessed a similar phenomenon while talking with Agmundr the day before.

But if there was no magic involved, how could the new war-paint be exactly the same as the Pictish man's Leifr had seen in the reflection of his sword blade? Surely the girl hadn't gone through all the trouble to merely show her supposed feelings towards him. Even if she had no skill in magic, there was only a slim chance that she spoke the truth and was genuinely in love with him, nevermind the ramblings about resurrection. It was far more likely she aimed to fully regain his favour in hopes of avoiding heavy labour and escaping when given the opportunity.

Having finished his meal, Leifr pushed the plate aside to let the girl know he was done. At the same time Agmundr deemed it time for Einarmr to return to his pen for the night and gestured for the thrall to follow him. The gaunt Tuath shot a tart glare at Senua as he walked past, proving Leifr's suspicions true about a divide in their friendship. The door shut with a creak, leaving the estranged couple alone once more. With a quiet sigh, Senua began to wash the tableware.

He knew he should have put his plan into motion and pretended to be under the Pict's enchantment, perhaps even put on a show to escape with her. But the more Leifr went over the happenings of the past few weeks in his head, the less he wanted to deceive Senua. There was no way the girl could feign all the times she had melted under his touch, shyly smiled at him and clung to him when afraid. There would've been cracks in her mask by now, cracks that Leifr had been on a lookout for ever since she cradled his hand like a lifeline through cage bars.

Bitter, Leifr mused over how his priorities kept tilting back and forth on the scales, where Senua was on one pan and his kin on the other. The spell she had cast on him was far more subtle than the ones Skorri and the shaman had mentioned while discussing the locals' aptitude for black magic. Perhaps that made it all the more dangerous, how it bent his will and convinced him to act against common sense. If merely seeing misery weigh down Senua's slender shoulders made Leifr toy with the idea of abandoning his kin, how would the girl's reaction to betrayal affect him?

He couldn't fight it. They'd find a way to the Pict village by other means, it was only a question of when. The island wasn't anywhere near as vast as his homeland and the settlers had the element of surprise on their side. Having made his decision, Leifr knelt beside Senua and ignored how she recoiled in surprise, before taking the clean plate from her hands and drying it with a linen cloth.

"What are you–", she trailed off and watched without comprehending as the Northman took out another plate from the washing basin.

"I'm not good at apologising", Leifr replied. "Just let me do this."

"Apologise? For what?"

Gently, he grabbed the girl's upper arm and pressed lightly where he knew a fresh bruise would be. She flinched and sharply sucked her teeth. "For hurting you."

Senua kept her head bowed, peering at him from beneath dark lashes and swallowed nervously, as if unsure how a thrall should respond to a master's apology. "I forgive you."

Leifr chuckled humourlessly. "We've come full circle, haven't we. Last night you apologised to me, now I did to you." Yet it was always Senua who had to pay the price when his doubts and fears took hold of him. Shame weighed Leifr's gaze down to his lap.

Linen and wool shuffled as the thrall crawled in front of him and hesitantly cupped his face with damp fingers. If what he saw in her pale blue eyes wasn't mercy and love, Leifr didn't know what to believe in anymore. "I forgive you", she repeated and smiled.

The atmosphere felt lighter afterwards, even the smoky air smelled less stuffy as they worked in comfortable silence. Once done with their task, Leifr offered his hand, which the girl readily accepted, and led her to his bed. Obediently, Senua stood still while Leifr helped her out of the woad-stained dress and chemise and pulled her to sit in his lap. Up this close, Leifr could clearly see the mostly healed yellowish-brown bruising on her throat where his hands had nearly crushed her windpipe. It felt like a lifetime had passed since their violent first encounter.

Wanting to atone for his past misconduct somehow, Leifr placed a delicate kiss over one of the bruises and heard a small gasp. Pain, pleasure or merely surprise, he couldn't tell. He dragged his warm tongue and lips up the length of her neck to the contour of her jaw and basked in the titillating sensation of Senua's lithe body trembling against his, like the last leaves of autumn that clung to tree branches. Vulnerable, yet stubborn and unyielding. She may not have been the prettiest flower of the field, but in Leifr's eyes Senua continued to bloom long after all the other flora had withered and accepted defeat under winter's dominion.

He nuzzled her cheek and felt her laborious breath fan against his neck. She smelled of smoke, earth, gravel and soap water, like thralls often did, but there was another mild scent that was entirely unique to her. Leifr couldn't place what it was exactly, but it wasn't unpleasant. Despite having no memories of his old life, inhaling her scent evoked feelings of nostalgia.

Senua's hand looped beneath his arm to pull the end of his braid, forcing his chin up. Butterflies fluttered nervously in his stomach when the Pict's lips found the seam of his scar. It was unnerving how easily Leifr could surrender himself to the thrall's allure and trust that she would not reach for his boot-knife or sword.

A muffled sound of an echoing croon right next to his ear forced Leifr out of the moment. He opened his eyes in time to see a glowing sword tear the air and incise his chest open. The blue light faded, as did the strange voice and the sensation of hot raindrops against his skin. The only pain he felt was from Senua biting and sucking the marred skin of his neck.

Forcefully brushing off the brief yet disturbing vision, Leifr grabbed the girl's face and pressed his lips against hers in a needy kiss, seeking solace in her warmth. Small hands slipped beneath his too small tunic to fondle his midriff. Leifr grunted a protest when Senua broke the kiss to pull the clothing over his head and toss it on the floor. Without wasting another second, he recaptured the Pict's lips. His hand drifted to her hip and pulled her closer, which made Senua inhale sharply against Leifr's mouth and grant his tongue access inside. Besides the leftover slop Agmundr had allowed the thralls to eat, Leifr could taste a hint of blackcurrants. Clearly, her mushroom foraging had been more bountiful than the night meal had led on.

His skin tingled pleasantly where Senua's fingertips skimmed up and down his spine. Eventually her hands settled to play with the fine hair on the back of his neck. Her headscarf joined the pile of clothes, releasing matted plaits that cascaded down to the small of her back. Leifr felt Senua grin against his lips when his eager hands moved to admire the woolen texture of her hair. Her mirth soon turned to fervour when he began to sensually massage her scalp. The blood in his veins felt like it was on fire when her wiry legs wrapped around his waist. Senua pressed herself flush against him and rocked their bodies to the joint rhythm of their erratic heartbeats. Leifr could no longer ignore the hardness that pressed against his trousers.

"You're such a tease, you know that", he groused.

The girl pulled back and looked up with wide blue eyes, as if to say "who, me?".

"Yes, you." Leifr stood up, with Senua still dangling from him, and lowered her to the bed. Playfully, he flicked the girl's nose and requested her to release him, which she did after expressing her displeasure by nibbling his bottom lip. Once free, the Northman untied his waistwrap and legwraps, kicked off his trousers and shoes, and joined the barbarian temptress. It felt good to let go, to give in and let his body and instincts take over, to not think and ponder whether any of this was genuine or not, to live in the moment.

By the time Agmundr returned, the couple had collapsed in each other's arms, skin glistening with sweat and content smiles on their lips.

"Glad to see you sorted out whatever was amiss." The old wolf rumbled. "Or should I say, glad to hear."

Leifr cracked an eye open and smirked. "Told you I could make her sing."

* * *

Senua opened her eyes. She must have dozed off for a couple of minutes, lulled by the rise and fall of Leifr's chest. Lifting her chin from the crook of his warm neck, she saw that the fire of the hearth had burnt out. Only the dull glow of dying embers and a single stubborn hanging lamp lit up the room. There would be no better time to make her escape than the present.

Slowly, she began to lift herself off the sleeping man, only to be stopped by the arms wrapped around her shoulder and waist. Biting her lip to silence the instinctive curse, Senua lowered herself back and carefully removed Leifr's limbs from her person before rolling off him. Just as she had come to expect after two weeks of early wake-up calls, the fair-haired man continued to sleep like a log, his only reaction being an exhaled protest at the lack of body heat.

Unable to see anything besides the vague outlines of the hearth in the dim light, Senua sat on the edge and waited for her eyes to adjust, and nearly jumped out of her skin when Leifr rolled over towards her unexpectedly, tossing the covers off him in the process. His breathing remained slow and heavy. Senua waited for a few seconds to confirm the man was still asleep before lowering herself down on the floor and fumbling in the dark for her cold clothes. She didn't bother with the apron dress and headscarf. If Coventina watched over her, she would soon wear garments of her own people.

The Northman's arm dangled over the edge of the bed, as if subconsciously reaching for Senua and begging her to stay. She pulled the sheepskin covers to Leifr's chin and hovered over him, undecided.

 _She has to stop stalling._

 _She doesn't want to leave Dillion._

 _He'll be safe, but her people won't be. After she has warned Tharain, she can come back to collect him._

Her mouth moved, but she dared not utter a sound. "I'll come back to you, I promise." She placed a light kiss on the man's blond crown and inhaled the faint smell of timber mixed with sweat and saltwater.

Without looking back, Senua tiptoed to the exit, pulled the ring handle and cringed when the door opened with a sequence of creaks. Before she could attempt to squeeze herself through the narrow gap, a muscular arm slammed the door shut. Two sets of golden eyes gleamed in the dark, one pair human, another canine. The wolfskin berserker leant over Senua, trapping her.

"Where you off to, girly? Little early to start your work routine."

 _She should've stolen Leifr's sword._

 _She's so careless! So stupid!_

 _She can't fight Agmundr._

 _Think quickly!_

"Pee", Senua stammered. "I need to pee."

"Use the pot. Thralls and wives aren't allowed outside until the rooster crows. You weren't thinking about leaving without permission, were you?"

"No, master."

Agmundr sneered and retrieved a padlock for the door. He hadn't expected the Pict to be bold enough to escape, at least, not until her leg had healed enough to properly run and climb. "Good, because the only way you're leaving this household is dead. Now scram."

Senua hurried back, kicked her shoes off and climbed into bed, not bothering with the pot for the sake of pointless pretences. Taking her place beneath the covers, she noticed Leifr was awake.

"Were you trying to leave?"

Although Senua couldn't see his expression clearly, there was no mistaking the tension in his quiet voice. Resting her head on Leifr's chest, she dared a small nod. An obvious lie would only anger him.

"I should've expected as much after you stopped using the crutch. All along, I knew this day would come, yet…" he trailed off. His chest rose and fell with a quiet sigh of disappointment. "You do realise you will be punished."

Senua groped blindly for his hand and laced their fingers together, hoping Leifr would understand the silent apology. Too much was at stake. She would have to try and escape again, even though she knew it would be twice as hard now that Agmundr and Leifr knew she wasn't as tame as she had led them to believe.

A yell sounded from outside, followed by more shouting. It wasn't drunk hollering, but calls from the night watchmen. Soon after an alarm was raised, waking up the rest of the villagers. Agmundr unlocked the door and ran outside, his two-handed battle axe at the ready. Leifr and Senua exchanged looks before clothing themselves in bare minimum and following the berserker.

"What's the commotion?" Agmundr called as Radugr sprinted past.

"We've found a Pict spy!"

Senua felt her blood turn to ice.

 _Who could it be? Did they catch him?_

 _Are there more? Would there be fighting?_

 _She needs a weapon. She can't defend anybody like this._

Leifr grabbed her hand. "Come on."

In the gloom of night they followed the stream of armed and half-clothed men to the town square where villagers had already gathered and formed a circle. At its center was Hildingr, and by his feet lay a pre-teen boy with curly raven hair. Night watchmen stood on either side of the youngster, one restraining him and the other holding a torch. The Pict spy gritted his teeth when his cheek was pressed against the hard earth. The light of the torch illuminated a pair of green downturned eyes which Senua could recognise from anywhere.

Pulling herself free from Leifr's grip, she screamed the boy's name and forced her way past the enclosing wall of bodies. Everything around her seemed to blur as she stumbled and dodged myriads of shadowy hands. With the ease of a slippery eel, Senua shook off those that managed to catch her arm or shoulder. It felt like being back in the Sea of Corpses, wading through waist-deep blood and avoiding the groping of severed hands.

 _Run, run!_

 _They're back. The corpses are back. Can you smell their rot?_

 _It's the darkness. It's come for her!_

 _Save Baethan, you must save him!_

"Senua!" she heard Baethan cry out for her, but couldn't place where the distorted voice came from.

When had it become so dark? Senua couldn't tell where the night sky ended and the jeering crowd began. Just as she was about to reach the warped figures of the ghostly Pict and his seemingly ablaze captors, she saw a flash of silver fur and felt something hard connect with the back of her head.

She lost her footing and knew no more.

When Senua came to, the first thing she was aware of was the smell of tar and the worried whispers of her Furies, accompanied by a splitting headache. She tried to lift a hand to her throbbing temple, but her arms were bound behind her back. Blinking blearily, she could make out the large fire of the hearth and the numerous hanging lamps and candles lighting the spacious room. Kegs of mead were stacked against one of the ornate walls and the pounded earth was thoroughly covered in large furs. There were enough wooden tables and benches to accommodate at least half of the village population. Where was she? She had never been inside a large house such as this.

"Now, then. Let us try again. Who are you?" Senua recognised the gravelly voice as Hildingr's. Then the question was repeated in Gaelic.

Her heart leapt to her throat. She saw Einarmr kneel next to the beaten and bloody figure of Baethan. The youngster had been stripped from his plaid outfit, leaving the numerous bruises and shallow knife cuts on his pale flesh visible for all to see. One of his eyes was swollen shut and what was visible of his broken nose resembled a prune. The room was quiet, but Senua could sense the anxiety from the men around her. The interrogation must've been going for a good while. None of the wives, children or slaves were present, excluding Einarmr.

The boy wheezed and weakly replied. "Baethan, son of Fina."

Einarmr had to press his ear right next to the boy's mouth to hear him.

"What is your purpose here?"

Baethan turned his head enough to see Senua with his good eye. "To find my friend."

Hildingr huffed with an air of impatience. "And found her you have. Tell me where you come from."

 _He can't reveal the location of the village!_

 _He will get us all killed!_

 _She has to stop him!_

"Baethan, don't tell him anything! Don't–"

"Silence!" Agmundr gnarled and punched Senua in the stomach. She crumbled over from the force and vomited. A dull cramp contracted her lower abdomen.

"Senua!" Baethan yelped.

Silly boy. Didn't he realise she was in no immediate danger? If the Northmen could've taken the information from her, they would have already done so. As long as Leifr stood between her and the villagers, nothing could seriously harm her. Baethan should've been worrying for his own life. Why did it have to be Baethan? Why hadn't Tharain sent someone older, someone Senua wasn't so attached to? Why hadn't Veda tried to stop him?

Senua felt her stomach sink as she studied the boy's mutilated face. The thin skin around his downturned eyes was dark with hideous purple circles. A steady stream of crimson dripped down to his hairless chin from between parted lips. Senua had to bite back a sob upon seeing the three crooked teeth that had pierced through the boy's bloated bottom lip. Merely talking must've caused him agonising pain. Crude imitations of triskelions and triquetras had been carved into the skin of his forehead and cheeks, as if to mock their practices and beliefs. Flaming red spots covered nearly the entirety of the moon-pale skin of his back and sides where leather-clad feet had kicked him.

Senua couldn't even begin to imagine what had given Baethan the strength to endure such questioning. Then she noticed the boy squinting at her with his single eye, as if waiting for her to conjure up a sword out of thin air and turn the tables in one fell swoop. But she wasn't a legendary hero like those told about in songs. She had no Gramr, no Liathplathadh. She couldn't save him.

"Answer me, Pict! Where is your village?"

The raven-curled boy glared up at the chief and spat blood on his feet. No translation was needed. He received a swift kick to his ribs, adding to the already impressive collection of bruises.

Hildingr slumped on the master's seat and rubbed his tired eyes. "This is going nowhere. For such a small lad, he's surprisingly resilient."

"I believe I have a way to glean the village location, chief." Senua didn't need to lift her head to know the silvery voice belonged to Yngvarr.

"He's all yours, Yngvarr Fjorisfingr."

"Bring the Pict bitch closer. We will need her cooperation."

Pair of strong arms lifted Senua off the ground and dragged her next to the poet. Yngvarr's handsome face lit up with a gleeful smirk, but there was something dark and sinister in his hazel eyes.

Senua growled. "Never help you."

"Afraid I didn't ask your opinion, my dear." He turned to address the men holding her. "Keep her still and don't let her turn her head. I want her to watch."

Senua struggled against the men to little avail.

Slowly, for dramatic effect, Yngvarr removed shears from his belt and experimentally clipped the air. "Here's how it is, swamp rat. If you won't tell us where your village is located, I will cut his fingers off, one by one. And if I run out of fingers, I will start cutting toes and then his ears. And if that doesn't satisfy your bloodthirst, surely castrating him will. So, where is it?"

Einarmr translated again. The blood drained from young Baethan's face and his single eye widened in fear. "Senua", he begged with a voice weak from abuse. "Save me, Senua."

 _He's bluffing! Don't tell him anything!_

 _He just wants to humiliate her, like she humiliated him._

 _Baethan's half-dead already. He won't survive to see Grian's next climb._

Squeezing her eyes shut, Senua prayed for any and all deities she could think of; mighty gods, gentle goddesses, legendary heroes, minor sprites, any being that could alter the suffering boy's fate for the better. One of the Northmen forced her eyes open in time for her to see Yngvarr cut Baethan's little finger off, the same hand and finger as the one Senua had bitten off Yngvarr. Blood splattered on the deerskin rug. The boy let out a high-pitched squeal that matched the Furies' shrill screams of horror. Pictish curses—which Senua hadn't known Baethan had in his vocabulary—blended with pitiful sobbing.

"Poor child. It must hurt to know that he came all this way looking for you, Pict bitch, only to have you turn your back on him in his time of need. But you can end his suffering. Just tell the location of the village and I will summon the healer."

 _He's had his retribution, he won't hurt Baethan anymore. He can't._

 _Yes, he can. He hates all Picts! He will continue torturing Baethan even if she tells!_

 _She can't reveal the location! Remember Dillion's village! Think of what will happen to Tharain, Derelei, Veda and the others! They will do to Tharain what they did to Dillion! You'll have their blood on your hands!_

 _Even if she tells them, they won't let Baethan live. He's no use to them. He'll be sacrificed to one of their foul gods._

"Loki take you!" Senua screeched.

"Wrong answer." Another finger was cut off.

Baethan screamed and begged incoherently between shallow and stuttery gulps of air until his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

Yngvarr patted the boy's sweat-dampened locks. "Sorry, lad. The cold-hearted bitch doesn't give a lick about you. Some friend, isn't she. I bet you're regretting having ever met her. Here, let me fix you up." He then took out his boot-knife and held it over the hearth until it glowed with searing red heat. He used the blade to staunch Baethan's bleeding fingers and hummed good-naturedly to a tune made up from the boy's raspy cries.

The sizzle of burning meat made Senua's stomach churn all over again. How could that sick bastard do that to a child? He knew she wouldn't forfeit the lives of her whole village for one dying boy. He only wanted to see her suffer and place Baethan's torture on her conscience. Angry tears trailed down Senua's cheeks as she fought against the rising nausea. _Please, goddess Coventina, I beseech you to spare him._

"You go too far, Yngvarr!" From the corner of her eye, Senua saw Leifr emerge from the shrouded crowd and felt a spark of hope. At that moment he seemed to take the form of the lost son of goddess Athfhinn and the hero Fionn, for his fair hair and bare torso glowed with the goddess' radiance under the light of the lanterns.

The poet scoffed. "I go too far? Whose side are you on, exactly? I'm beginning to think you're a Pict collaborator."

The hand resting on the pommel of Leifr's sword tightened. "Pict collaborator? You've got some nerve."

"You paint and fight like them. You appeared on our shores without a ship in sight." Yngvarr let go of Baethan's mutilated hand, stepped over the whimpering boy and walked up to Leifr, buffing his chest out and standing at his full height, which still wasn't enough to measure up to the painted man. Senua realised Yngvarr must've been itching to find an excuse to put the other man in his place ever since the humiliating incident in his home, and now Leifr had given one on a silver platter by opposing the Northmen's villainy. "Rumour has it that you understand their language, too. One has to wonder where you've learnt all that if you've never had any contact with these barbarians. Unless, of course, you're one yourself!"

Like a wolf ready to leap on its prey, Leifr's shoulders raised and his stormy eyes narrowed threateningly. "You shouldn't believe every rumour you hear, Varr-varr." By the way Leifr spat the last word in contempt and how Yngvarr's fair features twisted to an offended scowl, Senua deduced the nickname to be a highly condescending one.

"Oh? Did I strike a nerve, Lelle?"

Agmundr interrupted them. "Cease this nonsense, Yngvarr Fjorisfingr! Leifr Afkarr is neither a Pict collaborator nor a Pict himself. The shaman had foretold that the god Freyr would gift me a son, which he did with the aid of his father Njord, the god of the sea—that is why there was no ship."

Yngvarr scoffed. "Then why does he insist on having this", he jabbed at the half-crumbled woad on Leifr's bare chest, "thing on his skin? Shave his beard and he'd look right at home rolling in the bogs."

Leifr grabbed Yngvarr by the collar of his tunic, lifted the man off the ground and snarled. "If you put as much lye in your hair as you talk shit, you'd be blonder than me by now."

"Enough." Hildingr rose from the master's seat. "Leifr Afkarr, none of us doubt your integrity. Explain why you interrupted the interrogation."

Leifr dropped Yngvarr and glanced down at Baethan who had fainted from the pain. "Because I don't find honour in torturing a mere boy. He's barely old enough to hold a sword, let alone to attend a Thing, for Tyr's sake!"

"It doesn't matter how few summers the Pict has seen, he is an enemy spy with vital information. Since you have demanded protection from harm for the girl—which I agreed was within your rights as her master—we cannot use force to make her talk. Instead, we must use the means given to us." Leifr must've gone to great lengths to ensure Senua's safety, which explained why she hadn't been dragged before the chief for an interrogation until now. "The men are tired of raiding Tuathan shores, yet we need fresh blood with strong backs if we are to reap all the benefits of this year's harvest." Hildingr gestured Leifr to step aside, which he did begrudgingly. "Yngvarr, you may proceed."

The poet fixed his wrinkled tunic with a huff and ordered one of the men to fetch water from the well. Senua could only helplessly watch as Coventina's blessed mantle of slumber was dissolved, forcing Baethan back to consciousness from his brief respite.

"Now, be a good girl and tell us where you vermin live. I'll make sure the brat will stay alive and awake until he runs out of limbs, if that's what it takes."

Senua looked to Leifr for help, but there was nothing he could do. If the man dared to draw his sword against the chief, he would be cut down on the spot and all of Senua's suffering would've been for nothing.

Baethan sniveled, his breathing coming in shallow gasps. His swollen lips oozed with blood from where the crooked teeth poked through and his already pale skin had taken a slightly ashen hue. Even if Senua told the Northmen what they wanted, there was little hope that Baethan would live without a druid to treat his severe wounds. "I'm sorry, Baethan."

The despair and disillusionment in his eye was sure to haunt Senua for the rest of her days.

"Too bad. For him." Yngvarr placed the shears around Baethan's middle finger.

"Wait!" Baethan squeaked. "I'll tell, please don't hurt me anymore."

Yngvarr's smug grin widened as Einarmr translated. "Ah, so we do have a sensible bog rat among us!" He removed the shears and lifted the boy's head by the hair. "Talk."

Einarmr resumed his spot next to the Pict and listened carefully to his quiet wheezing. "To the south, past the narrow passage between Loch Stenness and Loch Harray, and the stone ring of Brodgar, there is a great forest. Further south of it lies the village, which is built on a hill by the seaside. Houton is its name."

"Excellent work, Yngvarr", Hildingr complimented. "Sjurd, have the scouts investigate the area immediately. Divide into two parties; the first follows the path by land and the second takes a boat to check out the village defences by sea. Keep out of sight by hiding behind the crags during daylight hours and investigate the shore by night."

"What of the boy?" Kjarr asked as he lifted the barely responsive youngster in his sturdy arms.

"Do with him what you will."

When the men restraining Senua began to drag outside, she cried out for Baethan, but the boy was too weak to respond. The sun was peeking from behind the horizon, signaling the beginning of goddess Grian's daily ascension. Senua was shoved unceremoniously to Leifr's arms.

"Are you hurt?" He cut the ropes binding her wrists and rubbed her cold hands to get back the circulation.

"Am fine, but Baethan–"

"I know, I'm sorry." Leifr wrapped his arms around Senua and stroked her hair, just as he had that day at the funeral. She buried her face in his chest and sought comfort in his body heat and proximity.

 _It's all her fault. If she hadn't taken so long to escape, Baethan would still be alive!_

 _If she hadn't been so careless when fighting Skorri, she could've escaped by now!_

 _If she had left some kind of message for Baethan when she invited Leifr to the meadow, he would've known to not get too close!_

 _If she had taken Leifr's sword, she could've killed Agmundr and the night watchmen before they caught Baethan!_

 _If, if, if–_

Senua squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip, but couldn't contain the sob that shook her body. Dimly, she was aware of Agmundr and Einarmr exchanging incoherent words. The Furies were so loud and so angry. None of the forgiving and lenient voices were audible, drowned as they were by the judgemental ones that gradually turned more animalistic until she could hear nothing but the snapping of jaws and growling of unseen beasts. Just as the world around her began to close in, threatening to swallow her vision and leave her alone in the dark, she felt a soft kiss on her brow and heard a voice unlike the Furies whisper: "You did all you could. Don't blame yourself."

She pulled back in time to see colour gradually return and her fragmented vision—like that of a shattered mirror—repair itself. First she saw the furrowing brows and the familiar crease in his forehead before Dillion's brilliant blue eyes darkened to Leifr's stormy ones and dark matted hair lightened to the colour of wheat. His warm fingers stroked her cheeks, trying to coax out a response. "Senua?" he repeated, voice laced with worry.

Senua had Dillion's name on her lips, but caught herself on time and mumbled "Leifr" in acknowledgement. Upon hearing chatter, she turned around to see what was happening.

Most of the Northmen had dispersed and headed home to start an early day, but some still lingered outside the mead hall. Among the remaining men Senua noticed Sjurd's distinctive braid and bangs. Vidhugsi wasn't in his company and Senua didn't recall seeing him inside the mead hall. She took comfort in knowing Sjurd still shielded his little brother's innocence from the darker realities of life and hadn't let the youth witness the brutal behavior of their kinsmen.

Just as Sjurd finished talking with another man Senua presumed to be one of the scouts and turned to leave, Yngvarr grabbed him by the shoulder. "Hold on, cousin. How about we enjoy a little bit of target practice before you set out? I'm curious to know how hunting Picts compares to hunting Tuaths."

Sjurd glanced at Baethan who hung limply from Kjarr's arms and shrugged. "Doubt he'll be much of a sport, but might as well put the boy out of his misery."

"I'm certain I can get him to move. Einarmr!"

The Tuath scurried to the poet's side. "Yes, master?"

"Translate." Yngvarr shoved a glass vial down the Pict boy's throat. "The shaman's potion should reinvigorate you enough to get back on your feet. If you can reach the towngate before Sjurd here shoots you, you're free to return home."

Baethan gagged between the mouthfuls of foul tasting drink. Colour returned to his cheeks, but Senua could tell there was nothing healthy about the unnatural flush. Kjarr lowered the Pict to the ground while Sjurd strung his bow, nocked an arrow and found himself an ideal spot, but the Pict boy refused to move. Einarmr repeated Yngvarr's instructions to no avail.

"What now?" Sjurd asked.

The poet sighed loudly, jogged to one of the workshops and returned with a flint fire striker and something that looked like a large clump of felt. "When a bog rat refuses to scurry, we give him reason to hurry", he sing-songed as he ripped the felt into smaller strips and tied them around the unresponsive boy's neck and arms, stuffing his trousers for a good measure.

"And the fire giant declared: let the world burn!" Yngvarr lit up the felt. It caught fire as easily as birch bark and burnt equally swiftly. The boy was immediately back on his feet, his spent voice producing little more than a strained whine when his skin and hair caught on fire. He ran without sense of direction, bumping into houses, even stepping on a careless dog's tail and stumbled over uneven earth. He fell heavily on his stomach and began to roll on the ground and patting the flames in vain. Some of the Northmen stared in awe and morbid fascination while others outright cheered and laughed at the boy's misfortune.

Senua pulled away from her stunned lover's arms and scrambled to the nearby well. A second later Leifr recovered from his momentary stupor and helped her fill a bucket. Knowing he was faster with his healthy legs, Leifr took the bucket from Senua and ran to Baethan. Just as he doused the flames, an arrow whistled through the air and pierced the charred boy's jaw and brain, immediately killing him.

"You've gained a wicked sense of humour, cousin. That's one offering Surt won't soon forget", Sjurd commented, unperturbed, and put his bow away.

"Not challenging enough for you, I take it. You haven't lost your touch. But don't worry, you'll get plenty of targets once we attack their village." Yngvarr brayed with laughter, unaware or uncaring how beside him Senua's hands clenched into fists. Her breathing grew laborious as sheer white-hot fury pulsed through her veins.

 _That man has no remorse. He tortured and burnt a child alive for his own amusement. He deserves to die._

 _She should send him to Hel. There he will suffer for all of eternity._

Senua grabbed Leifr's sword and pulled it from its sheath so fast the Northman had no time to stop her. Ignoring the twinge in her still healing knee, she rushed at the poet with a bloodcurdling scream. "Die, bastard!"

Yngvarr hastily armed himself with his boot-knife, but Senua, grasping the handle of the sword with both hands, knocked the weapon out of the poet's hand with a single powerful swipe that left an angry red cut on his palm. He held his bleeding hand and cursed profoundly, until a shadow of a raised sword froze him in place. Hazel eyes widened in fear at the sight of the crazed Pictish woman. With nothing to defend himself with, Yngvarr could only cover his face with his arms and brace for the attack that never came. A loud clang of sword clashing against a great axe encouraged him to peer from behind shaking arms.

Agmundr had parried Senua's strike and proceeded to overpower her with brute force of strength alone. Her knees buckled beneath the combined weight of the crossed weapons and the berserker. Abruptly, he pulled back to quickly hook the sword blade with his axe and pulled the girl's weapon out of the way, leaving her vulnerable. With the strength of a wild boar, Agmundr rammed into Senua, knocking her down and releasing the sword from her grip. "Behave, girly, or your punishment will be far more severe."

But Senua refused to back down. Gritting her teeth and snarling like a wounded badger, she struggled back on her feet. Fueled by her frustration, anger and grief, she lunged at the old berserker. Not wanting to further mar his future daughter-in-law's body, Agmundr discarded his axe and grabbed the girl by her fists. "Feisty, aren't you."

Senua felt someone grab her from behind, intending on restraining and pulling her off the berserker, but Agmundr was having none of it. "Stay back, son. I want to witness with my own eyes what Skorri's killer is made of." Leifr hesitated for a moment before heeding the command and releasing her.

An amused grin curved his weathered face as Agmundr wrestled the girl's arms behind her back before placing a muscular arm around her neck, holding her in a rear chokehold. Still not accepting defeat, Senua kicked Agmundr's calves with her heels and headbutted him, but the berserker merely cackled through the minor daze. Changing tactics, Senua suddenly leant down, held onto Agmundr's waist with her freed arms and swept her uninjured leg behind the Northman's, and forced both of them on the ground. She grabbed the berserker by the furry hood and slammed the back of his head against the rocky ground several times. The wolfskin softened the blows, but the force was enough to stun him momentarily. Senua staggered back on her feet, retrieved Leifr's sword and advanced on Yngvarr, who deemed it best to retreat.

There was a soft twang, followed by a flash of pain and the sword fell from her numb fingers to the ground with a clatter. Dumbfounded, Senua looked down at the shaft of an arrow sticking out of her forearm and took another unsure step forward before stumbling and falling on her knees. Her vision swam and the earth beneath her feet kept tilting like she was balancing on a drifting dugout canoe. Some Furies cried out in pain and fear while others merely expressed their surprise and confusion.

"Senua!" Leifr appeared beside her and gently gathered her in his arms, shielding her from the other Northmen.

"Stand down, Sjurd Hrador!" Senua heard Agmundr bark. He had recovered remarkably fast and was already kneeling next to his adopted son. "How is she?"

Senua gritted her teeth. "Will live. But he won't." She spat in Yngvarr's direction.

Leifr and Agmundr exchanged amused looks. "Take her home, son. Einarmr, go summon the healer and get thralls to dispose the Pict boy's body."

* * *

"You should fine Sjurd for damaging your property", Radugr suggested.

"I will."

"Yngvarr should really learn to defend himself. It was pathetic, really, to watch him flounder against a woman."

"Guess he's used to only one kind of confrontation with the fairer sex." Leifr smirked grimly.

"Still can't believe Urre shot Sessi. She's going to be okay, right? I'll never be able to spend quality time with Tullan if she won't." Vidhugsi gathered the dice and shook. "Ah, damn it. Say what you will of my cousin, but he's always had a talent for gambling."

Radugr scoffed. "He cheats, that's why. And the girl will be fine. Sjurd at least had the sense to shoot in the least damaging part of the body. Didn't even hit the bone, although it was close."

"Of course he didn't! If he doesn't want his target to get badly injured, they won't. Urre's the best shot in all of Norway!"

"Too bad he's not the best shot in all of Hrossey", Radugr teased and took his turn to shake the dice. He rolled a six and a four. "Nice! Time to pay up, jug-ears." Vidhugsi groaned.

An approaching rattle of chains attracted the men's attention from their game. Leifr recognised the shabby clothes and auburn curls of Einarmr. "Any news?" he called.

"Master Agmundr wanted me to inform you that the healer has finished treating and binding Senua's wound. Her arm will make a full recovery within forty days, if gods be willing."

Leifr felt a weight roll off his shoulders. Despite knowing the wound wouldn't be fatal, he couldn't help but worry whenever Senua's safety and health were concerned. "Best I go see she's not trying to bash the old wolf's head in my absence. Shall I rely your best wishes, Vidhugsi?"

"Tell her to get better as fast as humanly possible! And to not forget our deal!"

"Your deal?" Leifr arched a brow in question, but the boy only grinned mysteriously in response. "You and Sjurd are cut from the same stone with your fondness for keeping secrets. But it doesn't matter, I'll find it out sooner or later from her."

Radugr snickered. "You barely spend any time home. Does that mean she actually talks during coupling? Tsk, you'll have to do better than that."

Leifr whacked the back of Radugr's head, knocking his woolen cap askew. "Quiet, you."

* * *

Senua sat on the edge of Leifr's bed and gingerly touched the wrapping around her forearm. She had been fed a remedy that dulled the pain and the wound had been wrapped with herbs that alleviated the stinging and itching sensation. In her hand she held the sullied iron tip of the arrow that had been removed from her arm. She had managed to snatch it from the pile of bloodsoaked strips of cloth and broken pieces of arrow shaft unbeknownst to Agmundr and the healer.

Peering at the sky from the smokehole, she could see the sun was about to reach its zenith. Einarmr had left to fetch Leifr while Agmundr was whittling outside the house. Senua weighed the risks of making her escape then and there. Perhaps, if she was very careful and quiet, she could sneak past the berserker and find one of the wives to escort her to the gate without raising suspicion. Senua crept to the door and prepared to pull the ring handle, but the door flew open at that very moment. Startled, she lost her footing and fell on her backside.

"Already heading back to work? How diligent of you." Agmundr pulled the girl back on her feet by the healthy arm. "But I insist you let your fellow one-armed thrall handle it."

How did he do that? The walls must've had ears. Senua scowled and shrugged off Agmundr's hold, which earnt her a throaty chortle. Now that the tame servant pretense was exposed, it infuriated Senua how the berserker didn't seem to take her seriously and acted like she wasn't a real threat. It wounded her warrior's pride. She clutched the sharpened piece of iron and imagined the surprise in the old man's golden eyes when she would stab his thick neck, right where the bulging vein was visible.

Two sets of running steps approached, signaling Leifr and Einarmr's return. Senua quickly hid the arrowhead in her sleeve. When Leifr came inside, his shoulders visibly relaxed from relief upon seeing her hale. He moved to touch her, but Agmundr grabbed the younger man by the shoulder. "Son, the punishment can't be delayed any longer. She's in no immediate danger and we can't let her out of our sight after what happened today."

"I can keep an eye on her if that's what worries you."

"No, lad. Not only are the men unhappy with how easily she managed to get her hands on a weapon, they don't agree with the special treatment you've given her. There are no other collarless slaves in the village. Yet every time she stirs trouble, she suffers no consequences. It is time you did the right thing and exercised your much boasted ability to handle thralls, don't you think."

Leifr visibly flinched. He was fully aware he had been acting against the best interest of the community. Had Senua gone too far and pushed away the only Northman who was truly and fully on her side?

"The penalty for an escape attempt for female thralls is rape from dozen free men and death", Agmundr said.

"Laws from the old world. Didn't we leave Norway to escape such outdated practices, old wolf?"

"Indeed, we did, lad. What do you propose would be a more fitting punishment?"

Broad shoulders stiffened, bearded jaw clenched and stormy eyes hardened. Senua felt her gut tighten in unease. She knew that look; Leifr was rebuilding the icy barrier around his heart in order to conform to what was expected of him. "You want her to be out of people's sights and make sure she won't be able to escape, correct? Then why not lock her in the pit until the scouts return to report to Hildingr."

Senua felt her heart drum painfully against her ribcage. Her hands were clammy with cold sweat and her breathing turned shallow. Images of ogham-covered stone walls flashed behind her eyes as she recalled the pit Zynbel had locked her in for days.

"Once Hildingr has decided our next course of action, she will come with us to the raid. She can be our guide, translate for us and if something goes wrong, we can use her as a hostage."

"Aye, that is a fair judgement. It should also serve to cool off the girly's head and give her arm and knee some time to heal." There was no mistaking the pride in the berserker's golden eyes when he clapped Leifr's back. "I will go inform Radugr of your decision. I trust you agree we should hire him to stand watch to make sure Yngvarr won't get any ideas to try and, say, set the pit on fire."

Senua swallowed. Two nightmares moulded into one in a single sentence. She was glad none of the men were aware of her fears, but it offered no comfort, knowing she would soon be forced to relive her days of isolation.

"I imagine that would be for the best", Leifr agreed, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Chin up, lad. You can survive a few nights without her." Agmundr squeezed Leifr's shoulder affectionately and left.

"Einarmr, I would have a word with her in private."

"Of course." The Tuath slunk outside, closing the door behind him.

Leifr guided Senua to sit down on the bed. "I don't want to do this."

"Then don't."

"You forced my hand. I've been trying to keep you safe, Eir have mercy, even the old wolf has done his part by requesting the other wives to accompany you at all times. If you were any other thrall, you'd be dead already. I treated you more like a wife than a thrall, yet you keep putting me in a difficult position and disregarding my kindness." He rubbed his tired eyes. It had been a long night and it would be an even longer day. "You're behaving just like Una does towards Ossurr. Maybe it's a Pictish trait, this defiance and ungratefulness."

Gingerly, Senua cupped Leifr's cheek. "Not that. I must leave. My people in danger. Please let me go. I swear to return after warning. Andraste as my witness! Please, Leifr!" There was a glimpse of hesitation in his eyes.

 _She can get through him! She must!_

 _She can't. The Northmen can't be trusted. She can't return to him without risking everything._

 _But he's also Dillion. She can trust Dillion._

Sighing, Leifr grabbed her wrist and kissed her palm. "The worst part is that I believe you when you say that. But the old wolf already suspects that I'm not fully in possession of my wits. Yngvarr put me on the spot earlier and despite what Hildingr said, the men are now on lookout for any suspicious behavior. I can't risk becoming an outcast. I won the men's respect with sweat and blood, and I won't let a barbarian woman take all that away." He squeezed her hand before retrieving the iron collar that had once shackled her neck. "However, if you play your part, a favourable opportunity may yet arise."

Before Senua could ask the meaning of Leifr's cryptic words, the Northman had already turned to summon Einarmr.

"Yes, Leifr Afkarr?"

Leifr bound Senua's hands behind her back, put on the iron collar and offered the end of the chain to Einarmr. "The old wolf ought to have taken care of the arrangements with Radugr by now. Take Senua to her prison. I have preparations to make."

"At once."

Senua suspected Einarmr took pleasure in tugging the chain and pretending to be of a higher status than her. They followed the path towards the slave pens where the Tuath spent most of his nights. She was tempted to flee from Einarmr's weak one-handed grip, but Senua quenched the urge, knowing she wouldn't be able to get past the gateguards. She had to trust Leifr to keep his word. Still, she wasn't about to make things easy for the Tuath.

"You revealed my village location."

Einarmr scoffed. "Of course. If I hadn't, they would've kept torturing him."

"You could've lied. It's not like they understand our languages."

"And when they realised I gave wrong directions, then I would be punished! It wouldn't matter if the Pict spy lied or not, they would still blame me. I wasn't about to risk my neck for a boy whose days were numbered."

Senua sneered. "I forget. You never risk your neck."

"That's right. That's why I'm alive and your friend is not. I don't owe allegiances to anybody, not even to Tuilelaith who was a princess of my home kingdom."

Senua stopped dead in her tracks and refused to budge even when Einarmr kept tugging at the chain. "You're despicable. You don't care about anyone else and lack honour and compassion."

Einarmr snorted. "Are you done?"

"No. Consider your additional portions of food a thing of the past."

"If you back down on our agreement, I'll tell master Agmundr the truth about Leifr Afkarr's tunic. We'll see how well he takes being lied to."

"Do that and I'll make sure Ossurr hears you've been spending private time with his wife. You might end up armless and therefore useless. You'll be the next thrall they'll sacrifice!"

Einarmr visibly paled. "Alright, alright! I won't speak a word of any of that if you promise to do the same."

"Just remember, Einarmr, that it's you I will hold accountable for whatever will happen to my people. And I will ensure they know it, too."

They walked the rest of the way in tense silence.

Radugr was already waiting for them by the pens. Once Einarmr had handed over the Pict, he beat a hasty retreat, as if afraid she would come after him. The pit was at the edge of the town, little further from the slave pens and Radugr's shed. Senua's bonds were removed and she was shoved inside. It was no higher than an average Northman and its floor was boarded, but its walls were made of stale smelling soil, gravel and clay. A roof made of boards was lowered over the pit, followed by a clink of a lock. The other side of the roof lid was ajar by the width of a finger, admitting in light but blocking direct rain.

Senua sat down and hugged her knees. What little was left of her rage was completely spent, leaving behind nothing but hollow uncertainty. She didn't know who she could trust anymore or if there was even anyone she could count as an ally. Einarmr, her first friend in the village, had turned out to be no better than a vulture. Vidhugsi, despite his open-mindedness, was Norse first and foremost. No doubt he would eventually get over his crush on Tuilelaith and take his place by his brother's side as a raider and a warrior. Tuilelaith was young and unassuming, and curiously enough didn't appear to hold any grudges against her captors and husband. Despite Fiona's past traumas, she seemed to have adjusted to her new reality and wouldn't even entertain the thought of parting with her children. What little Senua had gathered of Mallaidh's mindset seemed to be similarly aligned with Tuilelaith's; she hadn't blessed Kjarr with five children under duress.

That left her with only Una. Senua was fairly certain that if she were to give the woman a weapon and a cause, the Fortian Pict would gladly accept and fight beside her. But as long as she was locked in a pit, she wouldn't be persuading anybody. Her only hope was Leifr. Time and time again she had failed to convince him, yet despite her failures something must've taken root. She had to believe.

Senua ignored the Furies backtalk by focusing on the dark wall of earth and imagined Baethan's raven curls and pale face against its surface the way he had been before her capture—healthy and happy, with downturned eyes and a button nose. So full of wonder and kindness and with an insatiable hunger for knowledge. A friend whose loyalty she didn't deserve. Tears trailed down her cheeks. He wouldn't be the last victim of the Northmen.

* * *

 _ **[Edit 16/1/2020: I've anglicised all the names.]**_

 _Hey, sorry for the long wait! This chapter got so bloated that I had to cut it into two parts and push the raid for yet another later chapter. I promise you won't have to wait for as long for the next part, as it's been already ⅓ written. Next chapter will feature more of Dillion and delve deeper into the backstories of Leifr, Tuilelaith, Ossurr and Una._

 _Sidenote: since in Hellblade Senua and Druth can understand each other despite having different languages, I'm assuming that Pictish and Gaelic are similar enough to be understood by both parties (at least in this semi-fantasy setting)._

 _Translations: **  
**Caitian = person from Kingdom of Cait (the most northern kingdom in Pictland)_  
 _Eiteag = 'The little foul/horrid one', a sprite_  
 _Grian = Irish goddess of the sun_

 _Wolves were regarded as sacred animals by the Celts and were seen as powerful helpers and guides._

 _triskelion = Celtic triple spiral, has several meanings, including 'past, present and future' and 'water, fire and earth' (the icon's also used in Hellblade to indicate autosaving)_  
 _sjaund = means both funeral ale and the feast. It is celebrated on the seventh day after the person has died._  
 _Leffe = nickname variation of Leifr_  
 _boggart = malevolent household spirit_  
 _Einherjar = warriors who died in battle and were brought to Valhalla by valkyries_  
 _Vinds/Vends (pl) = what vikings called western Slavs of Baltic Sea_  
 _Bradthurs = Hot-tempered giant (byname)_  
 _torc = Celtic neck jewellery_  
 _Einradi = self-willed (byname)_  
 _Ulaid = the most northeastern Irish kingdom_  
 _Serch Bythol = Celtic symbol for everlasting love_  
 _triquetra = Celtic symbol of eternal spiritual life_  
 _Varr-varr = condescending (baby-talk) variation of Yngvarr_  
 _Lelle = condescending variation of Leifr_  
 _Urre = nickname variation of Sjurd_  
 _ogham = alphabet used by Celts and Picts_  
 _Fortian = person from Kingdom of Fortriu (kingdom in Pictland, southeast of Cait)_


End file.
